


In One Month

by roane



Series: Book of Days [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Days OTP Challenge, BAMFs, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Prompt Fic, Sexual Identity, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 34,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes almost losing Sherlock to make John question how he actually feels about his flatmate and friend, and by questioning that, he questions everything about himself. (Thirty daily chapters about a month in the life of Sherlock and John, using the 30 Days OTP Challenge as a roadmap.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to thisprettywren for the nudge and the reading. Prompts are [here](http://ericandy.tumblr.com/post/26596382488/ericandys-30-day-otp-challenge).

John’s entire body is throbbing with pain. He’s fairly certain he’s got broken fingers on his left hand, and his entire left side is going to be one giant bruise come morning. Their suspect had ambushed them in the alleyway, then ran up here. John pauses on the rooftop to catch his breath. Where the hell was Sherlock? He’d followed him up here once he made it to his feet, up all seven flights of stairs, cursing both Sherlock and the suspect the entire, painful way.  
  
Where the hell was the suspect, for that matter? Shit. John grabs the Browning from his waistband, wincing at the stretch along his aching side as he reaches back for it. “Sherlock,” he hisses. He’s answered by a quiet, “Over here.”

At first John can’t see him anywhere—and thankfully can’t see his earlier assailant, either. “Sherlock?”  
  
“Here.”  
  
‘Here’ means over the ledge of the building. “Fucking hell!” John looks over the ledge to find Sherlock dangling over the street by his fingertips. Sherlock wears an almost blank expression, not entirely unlike the one he wears when he’s deep in thought. He’s about a meter and a half below the roof, hanging on to a decorative bit of stonework. His feet kick against the building for purchase, with no luck.   
  
“What happened?” John lies flat on the roof and stretches, gritting his teeth at the pain, trying to reach Sherlock’s hand.   
  
“Thompson,” grunts Sherlock. “Knocked me over—he’s not up there with you?” He reaches for John’s hand, but comes short.  
  
“No,” says John. “Just hang on.”  
  
“I’m not going to do much else, I assure you.”  
  
John reaches for his phone with his left hand and bites back a scream as his broken fingers brush against his coat. Awkwardly, he reaches with his right hand into his left pocket and manages to pull out his phone, nearly dropping it. Thank Christ he has Lestrade on speed dial.  
  
“He’s sending help,” John says, after hanging up. He lies down on his belly again, scooting forward as far as he dares.  
  
“John, I—” Sherlock’s face is paler than usual, his eyes wide. It takes John a moment to realise that Sherlock is terrified. “I don’t think I can hold on that long.”  
  
“Try reaching for me again.”  
  
“I can’t,” says Sherlock. “I’ll fall.”  
  
“Look at me,” says John, and Sherlock does. “I am not going to let you fall.” He wriggles forward just a few precious centimeters more, his body precariously close to the tipping point. He throws his centre of balance back as far as he can while still reaching forward.  ”Sherlock, on the count of three, I want you to swing up and grab my hand.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Just do it,” John orders. If Sherlock can just get close enough, John can grab him.  
  
Sherlock meets his eyes for several heartbeats, then nods.   
  
“All right,” says John. “One. Two. Three.”  
  
Sherlock lunges up and John leans down. Their hands touch, then miss. On the downswing, Sherlock’s other hand—the hand holding him to the building—slips. He cries out, and John nearly throws himself off the roof after him, grabbing him around the wrist with his right hand and holding on to the ledge with his left, screaming at the feeling of bone jarring against bone.  
  
Sherlock’s boots catch in the brickwork of the building, giving John just enough leverage to pull back from the tipping point. Once Sherlock manages to grab the top ledge, the worst is past. He scrambles over the ledge while John falls backwards to the rooftop, panting as much from pain as from any exertion.   
  
Sirens sound from the street below, and Sherlock laughs, out of breath himself. “Lestrade has impeccable timing.”  
  
“You stupid, sodding git,” pants John. “Next time will you  _wait for me_ before charging after someone?”  
  
“Probably not,” admits Sherlock, and a moment later laughs, a slight edge of hysteria to the sound.   
  
John struggles to a sitting position and reaches out with his uninjured hand, grabbing Sherlock’s. Sherlock, to his surprise, not only doesn’t pull away, but squeezes his hand tightly in return.


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

Sherlock jumps to his feet--of course he does, he's not the one who's a walking contusion--and offers John his hand. John takes it and is hauled to his feet with a little less gentleness than he could have hoped for. He grimaces and Sherlock takes him by the shoulders, peering into his face.  
  
"John. Are you all right?"  
  
It takes everything John has not to laugh. His entire body aches, he's got at least two broken fingers on his left hand, and he feels as if most of the skin of his hands and arms has had a close encounter with a cheese grater. And yet: "Yeah, Sherlock. You?"  
  
Sherlock nods just once, his eyes still searching John's. The sirens are getting louder--Lestrade and his men will be there soon, too late to help, unless they want to conduct a manhunt for the now-missing suspect. "Are you sure?" Sherlock asks.  
  
"I'm fine," John says. "I'm not the one who nearly just--"  
  
The reality of it hits him. _I'm not the one who nearly just died._  
  
"You fucking idiot!" John crowds into Sherlock's space, punctuating his words with hits to his shoulder. "I _told_ you to _wait_ for me to _follow_ you, but you just _couldn't do it_ , could you? Oh no, not _Sherlock_ fucking Holmes. If you're so _fucking clever_ why did you just almost get _thrown_ off a _roof_?"  
  
"John, I--"  
  
"Shut up! Do you think I tell you this shit because I want to boss you around?" John can't stop the torrent of words; he's not even sure where they're coming from at this point. "I was a _soldier_. My job--let's be honest, my _only_ job at this point--is to keep that fucking precious brain of yours inside your skull. Which I can't do if you go haring off after men who try to _throw you off a fucking roof_."  
  
"John." Sherlock's tone stops him. John lowers his hands and looks up. "I'm sorry," Sherlock says.  
  
John doesn't want to hit him anymore. He does the only thing he can think of, and crowds back into Sherlock's space again, grabbing him around the waist with his good hand and hugging him hard. Hugging is not something they've done, and John can't say what's different this time from every other time they've faced almost-certain death.  
  
After a few surprised seconds, Sherlock hugs him back, wrapping his arms tightly enough around John that he starts to protest. To hell with his bruises. John buries his face against Sherlock's black dress shirt and tries to ignore how close to tears he is.  
  
"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs against John's hair. "Thank you."


	3. Gaming/Watching a Movie

They don't talk about what happened on the rooftop. Sherlock stays uncharacteristically quiet while John is being treated in the A&E, and John is uncomfortably aware of how closely Sherlock is watching him. John can't figure out what's going on inside his head, and it's driving him a little mad. 

John makes the doctor show him his x-rays. He is fairly lucky: a clean break across the middle phalanges of his middle and ring fingers. He'll be in a cast for four to six weeks, but at least he won't require immediate surgery to stabilise the bones. Given the additional trauma he could have caused by putting both his weight and Sherlock's on the hand trying to haul them both over the ledge, it could have been much, much worse.

By the time John is released, the sun is starting to rise and John feels like he could sleep for a week. They're silent all the way back to Baker Street, and John is equal parts grateful and annoyed: grateful because he's utterly exhausted and in a pain, and listening to Sherlock rant about the inefficiencies of the NHS is not on, but annoyed because if Sherlock is going to be so distinctly _un_ -Sherlock, John would at least like to know if the change is a permanent one.

They part with barely a quiet 'good night'--for all that it's half-six in the morning--and John drags himself up the stairs and falls across his bed into a drugged sleep.

When he wakes, the first thing he knows is that he is very much overdue for a pain pill. His entire left hand is throbbing to halfway up his forearm. The pills are downstairs, which is just as well because that's where the water glasses are too. He hauls himself out of bed, feeling every abused muscle protest loudly all at once, like a bunch of football hooligans after a bad call.

Sherlock's nowhere to be seen, and his bedroom door is closed. John decides to make tea to take his pills with instead, and quickly realises that he's not quite as ambidextrous as he thought he was. He keeps reaching for things with his left hand, once bumping it painfully against the cupboard. He ends up making tea while holding his hand behind his back to remind himself not to use the hand.

After tea and toast and percocet, John feels knackered again and lies down on the couch. On a normal day he'd be poring through the papers, looking for a possible case for them. Not a chance. Nothing short of the building burning down is going to get John off the couch today.

Of course, Sherlock tests that as soon as he gets up. "Why aren't you dressed?" he asks.

John arches an eyebrow, looking pointedly at Sherlock in his dressing gown.

"Thompson is still at large. I know exactly where he'll hole up," Sherlock says, coming over to the couch and pushing John's feet off so he can flop down.

John puts his feet back up, sticking them in Sherlock's lap, daring him to push them off again. "I'm not going anywhere," he says. "And neither are you."

"But Thompson--"

"Lestrade can get Thompson. Send him a text and tell him where he is." John reaches for the remote to the television and turns it on, signalling that the discussion is over.

"John--"

"Shut up, I'm watching telly."

Sherlock grumbles, but for a wonder, he sends a text and settles back into the couch.

While flipping through the channels, John spots a familiar scene and grins, putting down the remote. Denholm Elliott is on the screen, saying, "...the city of Tanis was consumed by the desert in a sand storm which lasted a whole year. Wiped clean by the wrath of God."

"That's ridiculous," says Sherlock. "No sand storm could ever sustain wind speeds for a year, much less remain in one place. What is this rubbish, John?"

John blinks at him. "Sherlock, it's _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. You know, instant classic? Archeologist finds the Ark of the Covenant? Thwarts the Nazis?"

Sherlock just gives him a blank look.

"My god, what did they do to you as a kid?" John glances at the screen and smiles. "I was going to be an archeologist when I was ten--because of this movie."

Sherlock watches for a few moments, then frowns. "But archeologists don't do that."

"Yeah, that's why I decided against it."

John is surprised that Sherlock hasn't thrown John's feet off of him yet, and more surprised when Sherlock starts... petting his feet. Just casual, absent almost, the way one might pet a cat. "Honestly, John. Nothing about this is remotely plausible."

"It's not supposed to be plausible," John says. "Just shut up and watch it."

"Fine," Sherlock says. "Don't expect me to like it."

John grins, the combination of percocet and the oddly soothing feeling of Sherlock's hands on his feet making him relaxed and a little loopy. "I never know what to expect from you, Sherlock."

For all his complaining, Sherlock shows absolutely no signs of getting up and leaving, and John dozes off to the sound of Sherlock going on about the geographical impossibilities present in the Tunis map room.


	4. On a Date

Her name is Claudia. She's hopelessly out of John's league, and he knows it. And yet--here they are, in a quiet corner of the pub, chatting over drinks. 

"So what happened to your hand, are you going to tell me?" She smiles at him, teasing. "Or is it a case of I should see the other guy?"

John laughs, and for a mad minute debates ditching his prepared lie, and telling her that in this scenario, he was the other guy, since he took the worst of it. "Oh, I was helping one of my mates move some furniture into his new flat. Got a bit clumsy."

She makes appropriately sympathetic noises and pats his other hand. "I hope he at least bought you a pint."

John thinks about Sherlock yesterday, rubbing his feet unexpectedly while John dozed on the couch. "No, but we're even."

He'd asked her out a few days before Sherlock nearly got himself killed falling off a roof, and he'd decided to go ahead and keep the date. Because frankly, he still can't believe she said yes to begin with. Claudia is taller than he is--which he's used to, and quite likes--and has a stunning figure, including legs long enough to give him some highly inappropriate and thoroughly enjoyable thoughts. 

She's in the middle of telling him a funny story about her job as a veterinarian when his mobile rings. He glances at it. It's Sherlock, and he is not answering. He silences the ringer. Claudia notices, and pauses long enough to rest her hand on his knee and smile. He smiles back, and prompts, "So, the Yorkie with the yappy owner--what happened there?"

Before she can answer, the phone dings with a text. And then another. And another. And then it rings again. And he ignores it again. He's going to murder Sherlock when he gets home.

"Maybe you should call back," Claudia says. "It sounds important." 

It's not important, John knows it's not important, and curses himself for a fool for even looking at the messages.

  
From: Sherlock 20:14  
I need you at home.  
-SH  


  
From: Sherlock 20:14  
Answer your phone.  
-SH  


  
From: Sherlock 20:15  
Lestrade's found Thompson.  
-SH  


Shit. Tonight, of all nights, it would have to be something important. "I'm sorry," he says. "Let me just call him back. Don't go anywhere."

He steps into the hall leading to the loo and dials. When Sherlock answers he says, "You'd better not be having me on. What do you need?"

"I need you to come home," Sherlock says. "There's evidence that Thompson had an accomplice."

John rubs at his forehead and thinks about protesting, but already knows it's a lost cause. So long, Claudia, farewell Claudia's lovely long legs. "Fine. I'll be home in half an hour."

When he goes back to the table, she smiles sweetly and says she'll ring him tomorrow, but John doesn't hold out much hope. 

In 221B, Sherlock is seated at his desk, eyes darting over the screen.

"All right," John says. "I'm here. What do you need that's so bloody important?"

"Oh, good." Sherlock doesn't look up. "I'm just looking over the new evidence now. Can you make some tea?"

John stands in the middle of the sitting room, left hand twitching in its cast with the urge to clench and unclench, and then perhaps wrap itself around Sherlock's neck. "You. Did not. Call me home to make _tea_."

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says, and John starts to relax. "I called you home because you were bored."

"What."

"John, your taste in women runs towards the attractive but unspeakably dull. I saved you the trouble of discovering that," Sherlock says. 

John wants to yell and throw things, but instead he goes icy calm. "Sherlock, what are you playing at?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock says. The bastard still hasn't looked up from his laptop. John steps forward and shuts it, barely missing Sherlock's hands on the keyboard.

"Every time I have a date," John says, "you behave like--like a jealous wife!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up, taking a step towards the kitchen. "That's ridiculous."

John catches him by the arm and spins him around. "It's not ridiculous. What are you trying to do?" Sherlock stares at him with his inscrutable eyes, and John lifts his chin. "Well?" John says.

"I'm not jealous," Sherlock says. "But I won't see you waste yourself on someone who's not worth your time."

"Not worth my--" John sputters. "What, you want to choose my girlfriends now?"

"No," says Sherlock, and he looks away. 

John takes a moment, his brow creasing. "Are you trying to tell me something? Mister 'I'm married to my work'?"

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock says, looking back to him. "You're not gay, as you've said on numerous occasions."

There have been so many times that they've stood this way, locked in eye contact, but this time feels different. There's something in the air that hasn't been here before, and John isn't sure he wants to name it. "Did you actually need me to come home?" John finally asks.

"Need?" says Sherlock. "No."

"Then I'm going to bed," John says. He turns and goes upstairs.


	5. Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not mention it every single chapter, but thisprettywren is invaluable to these, and is quick to poke at me when I get out of line or vague.

Despite going to bed ridiculously early, John hardly sleeps at all that night. He lies awake for hours, first staring at the ceiling, then reading, then staring at the ceiling some more. At first he wonders what Sherlock is playing at, then he thinks he knows. Then he wonders what he should do about it.

John has been the object of unrequited crushes before, and he's had his own share of unrequited crushes; it's one reason he winces at the way Sherlock treats Molly--and worse, at the way Molly lets him. But this is... different somehow. He doesn't have that sense of gentle affection verging dangerously close to pity. He doesn't spend any time trying to figure out how to kindly dissuade Sherlock. Partly because he's sure Sherlock knows how John feels--he always knows how John feels.

Partly because... he doesn't want to dissuade Sherlock. Which seems terribly cruel, in light of John's general lack of interest in men. He eventually drifts off, still wondering what's wrong with him.

Sherlock is already up when John comes downstairs--or possibly he just didn't sleep. He's rushing around, collecting papers and his laptop while John is fumbling his way towards the kettle. Sherlock shrugs into his jacket, buttoning the first button, then picks up his things and follows John into the kitchen. "Keep your phone with you," he says, "I may need you later."

What happens next shouldn't surprise him, but it does: Sherlock grabs John by the shoulder, leans down, and kisses him firmly on the mouth. It's a fairly chaste kiss, and over before John has a chance to react, leaving him with only a faint impression of warmth against his mouth. Then Sherlock is gone without another word.

John makes tea in a daze. He really has to say something now. Sabotaging his dates is one thing; he can overlook that. He could have kept pretending he didn't know how Sherlock feels, but now this... he really can't let this go on. It's not right. He should say something. He will, as soon as Sherlock comes home.

He spends the morning trying to write a blog entry about their adventures chasing down Thompson, and gives up after two hours of frustration. Not only can't he type with his bloody cast, but he can't think either. Damn Sherlock. Why does he have to make everything complicated?

He manages to push it out of his head for most of the rest of the day with dull errands, the things Sherlock takes for granted, like grocery shopping and laundry. By the time Sherlock comes home, after 9 PM, John has the flat tidied and has started making notes from the newspapers on possible cases for them to follow up on.

He's prepared this time. Sherlock swoops over to him and leans down. John stops him with a hand against his chest. "Sherlock, what is this."

"I was just going to say hello," Sherlock says.

"By kissing me."

"Of course."

John slips out of his chair and stands, giving himself a little more distance from Sherlock. "Sherlock..." He pauses, trying to figure out what comes after 'Sherlock'. "I'm really flattered, I am, but--"

"No," says Sherlock. "You're not flattered. You're intrigued. There's a vital difference."

John opens his mouth to argue, but can't find the words. Sherlock takes a step toward him, pulling John's focus first to Sherlock's mouth, then his eyes. 

"You want to know what I'm planning," Sherlock says, and it would be helpful to John's overall composure if the man didn't _loom_ so... so attractively. "I'm planning to kiss you again. But you're welcome to stop me, if that's what you want."

John's heart is threatening to hammer its way out of his chest, pounding in his temples. The adrenaline rush he feels is almost flight-or-fight, but he doesn't want to do either, can't do either. He doesn't move.

At first the kiss is as chaste as the morning one, gentle pressure of mouth on mouth. It holds on a second too long for a simple smooch, and when Sherlock slides one hand around the back of John's neck, everything changes. Sherlock parts his lips, and John follows, suddenly helplessly aware of his hands--where does he put his _hands_? He settles them against Sherlock's waist above his hips, and Sherlock pulls him closer with a soft little sigh.

Then their tongues touch, and John loses track of reality. It's been so stupidly long since he's been properly kissed--that's clearly the reason for the intensity of his reaction. It's biology, response to stimuli. He pulls Sherlock closer to him, feeling (and ignoring) the beginnings of an erection pressing against him through Sherlock's trousers.

Sherlock cradles John's head, brushing his thumbs over John's cheeks and whimpering into John's mouth. It's not a sound John has heard from anyone he was kissing, ever--and the last thing in the world he ever expected from Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock lets go of John's face with one hand, and slips that hand down to curl in the small of John's back, pulling their bodies tight against one another.

It's too much. John can't keep ignoring that there is a very persistent cock pressing against his belly, starting to grind against him. And he just--can't. He's not. He doesn't.

He breaks the kiss and pulls away from Sherlock, refusing to look at him. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I--" He's too much of a coward to say anything else. John grabs his coat and flees down the stairs and out onto the pavement.


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothes

Nothing really changes. And at the same time, everything changes. John always has an acute awareness of Sherlock, but now it's almost painfully attuned. If Sherlock is in the room, John has a difficult time paying attention to anything else. 

Because Sherlock is acting like _nothing happened_.

He hasn't said a single word to John about the kisses. He hasn't even looked at John in anything other than the usual ways. The next morning, John tries to apologise, and Sherlock just gives him a blank look, and John wonders, just for a second, if Sherlock really can delete things from his memory, and if he's deleted kissing John. It bothers him more than he'd like to admit.

Twenty-four hours after the kiss, Sherlock still hasn't said anything. Of course, they've spent most of the preceding fourteen hours chasing down Thompson's accomplice. It's fucking freezing here on the banks of the Thames, and John's jacket is soaked after he used it as a rope to pull the accomplice to safety. Why on earth someone would jump off a quay when they couldn't swim, John couldn't say. The man is not terribly clever.

He is, however, willing to talk, and is spilling his secrets to Lestrade almost before they have the cuffs on him. John folds his arms and rubs at his biceps, trying to get warm.

"Here," Sherlock says, and drapes his coat around John's shoulders. 

"What? No," John says, trying to give it back. "You'll freeze."

"I have more layers on than you do," Sherlock says. "Put it on." It's so unexpectedly solicitous of him, that John does. Well, kind of. It's too tight across the shoulders and in the arms, he can barely close it--honestly, who gets their _overcoat_ tailored--not to mention that it drags on the ground, but he's warmer. Sherlock is as unfazed by the weather as he always is, in his jacket and green scarf--

Wait. "Sherlock, is that my scarf?"

Sherlock looks down. "Oh. So it is. I must have grabbed it by mistake this morning."

John doesn't buy it for a minute--that the most observant man in the country, if not the world, grabbed the wrong scarf on his way out the door. He's seized with a pang of guilt. It seems Sherlock hasn't deleted what happened after all, and has resorted to stealing John's clothes. 

"We're ready for your statements now," says Lestrade, glancing over John with an arched eyebrow. 

"Right," says John. There's time to sit with his guilty conscience later. 

As they're climbing into the cab on the way home, John shrugs out of Sherlock's coat and hands it over. "Thank you," he says. "That was very kind."

Sherlock takes it but doesn't put it on, climbing into the back of the cab. "You should know by now, John, that I am never kind." John settles in next to him and closes the door. Sherlock doesn't say anything further before they're home. Even then, once they're upstairs and John is warming himself at the fire Mrs Hudson laid for them, Sherlock shows no sign of talking.

John takes a deep breath. "Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't look up from his laptop.

_"Sherlock."_

"What is it?" Sherlock snaps. 

"We should talk about last night," John says. 

"There's nothing to discuss," Sherlock responds. "Consider the subject closed."

"But--" John licks his lower lip, and looks for the right words. "You... clearly have feelings for me, and I don't want you to think--"

"I know what you think," Sherlock says. "The subject is closed."

John has an ache in his chest, and a feeling that he's broken something beyond repair. "I--" He swallows. "We're out of milk. I'm just going to nip out." Because that's what he does, isn't it? He runs. 

He stops to grab his scarf on the way out, and an old coat that's seen better days, but will at least keep him warm. Sherlock doesn't say anything further before John walks out the door.

Despite the late hour, there's still traffic on Baker Street, and John thinks about hailing a taxi before he considers the state of his wallet. It's not quite late enough to be last call, so he decides to walk to his local. 

The whole way there, he feels like Sherlock is right there walking beside him. He can almost hear Sherlock's voice, whispering in his ear, telling him secrets about each person that passes by. Sherlock has never whispered in John's ear, not ever, but John has such a vivid impression of it he can almost feel warm breath against his skin. It's comforting and unsettling at the same time, and prickles at his nerve endings.

It isn't until he's halfway through his first pint that John realises what it is. It's the scarf. Sherlock wore the scarf all day, running through London, up stairways and down alleyways, and now John's scarf smells like Sherlock. It creates an almost tangible presence. He takes a long pull from his pint and then reaches up, meaning to take it off. 

What he ends up doing instead is bringing it to his face and inhaling. John can smell Sherlock's ludicrously expensive soap, and the product he puts on his hair--although Sherlock swears he would never do anything so vain. He can smell the sweat from Sherlock's nape, and for a moment, considers how it would taste.

That only leads him back to the kiss, or The Kiss, as his brain insists, the noises Sherlock had made, the way their bodies had fit together... John pulls off the scarf and shoves it in his coat pocket, finishing his pint in swift, vicious movements. 

It wasn't that John had never kissed a man before. He has: on a dare, for a lark. But he'd never kissed a man before and... and had it feel so much like he was kissing a woman. Not physically of course, it's not that Sherlock is feminine. It's more abstract than that. 

It's so blindingly obvious all he can do is sit back on the barstool for a moment. He's _attracted_ to Sherlock, the same way he was to Sarah or Claudia, or any of the others. 

John is terrified.

He doesn't know what he is right now, or what he feels. But everything in him tells him to go home and fix things with Sherlock, whatever it takes. He pays for his pint and slides off the stool.

John has to get home.


	7. Cosplaying

John bursts into the sitting room, ready to apologise to Sherlock, ready to see where this goes, what happens next.

The sitting room is empty. Sherlock's bedroom door is open, and the room beyond is empty. "Sherlock?" Nothing. Sherlock's coat is gone from its usual place. "Shit," John says to the empty flat. Was it a case? Was Sherlock upset as well? John checks his phone, and sure enough, there's a message. He hadn't heard it chime while he was hurrying back from the pub.

  
From: Sherlock 01:58  
Lestrade called. New murder. Don't wait up.  
-SH  


No address. No details. No demand that John drop what he's doing and join Sherlock at the crime scene. Hating himself a little, John responds.

  
To: Sherlock 02:07  
Where at? What do you need?  


 

  
From: Sherlock 02:15  
Nothing. See you in the morning.  
-SH  


It's a slap in the face, and it's intended to be one, John is sure. He's also fairly sure he deserves it. He climbs up the stairs to go to bed, weighted with a sense of loss so unexpected he staggers beneath it.

Sleep, once again, is a long time coming.

John wakes to the sound of Sherlock muttering and pacing in the sitting room downstairs. He's seized with a mad urge to run downstairs and throw himself at Sherlock, to apologise, to tell Sherlock everything. Instead he gets dressed and goes down to make tea.

"It's absolutely idiotic, John," Sherlock says as he walks past. "It should be completely obvious, but it's not."

John doesn't stop, but keeps going to the kitchen. "This would be the case you didn't need my help on, then?" It comes out more bitter than he intends.

Sherlock follows him. "I didn't need you at the crime scene. The cause of death was obvious. The victim was shot."

He almost expects Sherlock to crowd into his personal space, but Sherlock doesn't. John goes through the motions of putting the kettle on, getting down two mugs and tea bags. "So what's the difficult part?"

"Aside from the fact that the murderer is still at large?" says Sherlock. "Look." John looks up from pouring the boiling water into the mugs to see Sherlock holding his phone out. John takes it and looks at the photo. "What are those markings?" Sherlock asks. It's a photo of the corpse, and John blinks. It's a photo of a young woman, obviously wearing a short dishwater blonde wig. She's also wearing a green striped polo shirt. Oddest of all, her skin is covered in black tally marks: on her arms, on her face, almost no part of her is unmarked. Around her neck is a marker--presumably the one used to write on her.

"Sherlock... where did this happen?" John shouldn't giggle at a corpse, but he's about to. He hands Sherlock his phone and a mug of tea.

"A cheap hotel in Brixton. Why?"

"Was there... some sort of party going on?" asks John.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. "Yes. How did you know that?"

In spite of everything, John can't help but grin. "A simple matter of deduction. I think you'll find that your murderer was a man or woman wearing a black suit, likely affecting an American accent."

Sherlock is staring at him, scowling. "Your sense of humour leaves a great deal to be desired."

John shakes his head. "Did nobody else recognize this? Someone's taking the piss, Sherlock." Then he can't help it. He does giggle. "Are you sure the victim is dead?"

"John."

"All right, all right. Come here." John goes into the sitting room and opens up his laptop. He does a search, then turns his screen around so Sherlock can see it. The picture is of a man, but otherwise, the markings and shirt and hair colour are nearly identical.

"Who is that?" Sherlock asks.

"Of course _you've_ never seen Doctor Who," John says, "but I would've thought someone on Lestrade's team had."

"I've seen Doctor Who," Sherlock snaps. "It was positively moronic."

"Well, moronic or not, your victim was dressed as this character right here. And about a minute later, the character was shot. Sound familiar?"

"By someone with an American accent and a black suit?" Sherlock says.

John nods. "Your 'party' was some sort of fan convention, I'll bet. Other people dressed up?"

"There were an extraordinary number of fezzes," Sherlock says.

"Call Lestrade," John says, turning his laptop back around. "And be sure to tell him that I'm very disappointed in him."

John, as it turns out, is exactly right. The shooting was an accidental one, a case of a prop gun gone wrong. The shooter thought the victim was playing around and left the scene, only later to realise what had happened. She turned herself in within an hour of Sherlock's call to Lestrade.

"We really need to work on your knowledge of pop culture," John says. He's sorry for the two girls involved in the shooting, of course, but can't help but feel pleased with himself for figuring it out. "If you'd known who Rory Williams was, you could have figured things out right there on the scene."

"It's a waste of time and energy," Sherlock says, sprawling on the couch.

"Then you need to keep me with you at crime scenes," John says, his voice dropping a little. "You need... sometimes you need a bloody interpreter, and for better or for worse, that's me." He stands up and walks over to the couch. "Budge over." Sherlock reluctantly moves his feet and sits up. "Sherlock," John says, then stops. 

"Don't," Sherlock says. "You're about to tell me that you had a change of heart and that you were wrong. Don't."

"What makes you say that?" 

"It's been all over your face since this morning," Sherlock says. "And you're wrong."

"I'm--wrong about being wrong?" John says, wondering if he should try to take Sherlock's hand, wondering if he wants to. He decides that he does, and reaches. "I don't think I am."

Sherlock pulls away from him. "Let it go," he says. Then, uncharacteristically soft, "Please."

John feels like he's at a crossroads. He can do as Sherlock asks, and maybe things will go back to where they were before. Or he can push, and either convince Sherlock that he really has changed his mind, or wreck things for good. In the end, it's no choice at all. John pulls his hand back. "All right," he says. 

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, then says, "You're going to insist that I watch Doctor Who, aren't you?"

John grins. "It's part of your heritage, Sherlock. I think it's an imperative."

"I hate you," Sherlock mutters.

"No you don't," John says.

"No," Sherlock says quietly. "No, I don't."


	8. Shopping

"You can't go out looking like that," Sherlock says. "It's embarrassing."

"Like what?" They're standing in the foyer of 221B, on their way to the latest crime scene.

Sherlock plucks at John's coat sleeve. "That coat is ready for the bin."

"Well I don't have another one, do I?" John says, irritated. " _Someone_ decided they wanted to try and replicate dry-cleaning chemicals at home, and now my regular coat is full of holes!"

Sherlock huffs out a sigh, turning up his collar and fastening the front of his coat. "You should have let Thompson's accomplice drown. You ruined a perfectly tolerable coat saving him."

They start down the stairs, Sherlock first, John jogging along behind. "No, Sherlock, _you_ ruined a perfectly 'tolerable' coat, trying to clean it."

Sherlock's right, though. His old green jacket has seen far better days: the cuffs are ripped, there are more than a few stains (some of dubious and possibly crime scene-related provenance), and the zip is broken half the time. He's going to have to give in and buy a new coat. It's a bad time. Their case load has been heavy enough that he hasn't worked a proper locum job in weeks, and he's feeling the pinch. His next pension cheque comes in a few days; he can hold off until then, and Sherlock can just cope with John's tatty jacket.

It takes Sherlock approximately twelve and a half minutes to tell Lestrade that the break-in was committed by a left-handed, exceptionally tall man with red hair and a nose-ring--a description that matches the victim's brother to a T. Sherlock and John leave before Lestrade makes the arrest.

In the cab on the way home, Sherlock leans forward and tells the driver, "Change of plans. Turn left here, please."

"Sherlock, where are we going?"

Sherlock sits back and smiles, having given the driver an unfamiliar address. "You'll see."

John watches out the windows suspiciously as the neighborhood grows posher and posher. "Sherlock. _Carnaby Street_? Really?"

The cab stops, and they climb out. For once, Sherlock takes care of the driver. "Come on, John. This won't take too long."

John sighs, because this is one of those occasions when it's better to just humour Sherlock. Actually, most times it's just easier to humour Sherlock than argue. John suspects this is intentional on Sherlock's part.

The shop is definitely posh, but not so much that John's uncomfortable. Compared to Mycroft's office, it's positively mundane. "Sherlock, what are we doing?"

Sherlock, of course, doesn't answer. He's too busy thumbing through the racks, pulling the occasional thing off. It takes John about a minute to realise that the pile of material in Sherlock's arms consists entirely of coats, and that none of them are Sherlock's size.

"Hey, no," John protests. "What are you doing?"

"It's only fair," Sherlock says, draping a couple of different options over his arm. "You're absolutely right, I ruined your old one."

"Christ, not from here, though." John looks at one of the price tags and feels his eyes bugging out. 

Sherlock, of course, ignores him. Once he has a few options, he snags John's sleeve with his other hand and pulls him over to a three-way mirror by a display of (no doubt ridiculously expensive) shoes. Sherlock stands John in front of the mirror and pokes at John's old coat. "Off," Sherlock says.

John shrugs out of his coat and sets it on the ground. This is absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock stands behind him--not touching at all, but John is hyperaware of his presence. He almost imagines he can feel warmth radiating from Sherlock. The edges of Sherlock's flared coat brush against the backs of his calves, and it tickles. It almost makes John want to shiver. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, trying to pay attention to his own reflection in the mirror and not Sherlock's.

Sherlock holds one of the jackets in front of John. It's a pale greyish-beige colour and John almost instantly hates it. Sherlock scowls, putting it down. "Terrible colour," Sherlock says, and John agrees. Finally Sherlock narrows it down to three. "All right," he says. "We'll try these on."

The first is a quilted mess of a thing that looks like it came from the 1980s. John supposes it must be in style, judging from the rest of the store, but he thinks it's hideous. He winces as the nylon material zips against the material of his cast, setting his teeth on edge.

Sherlock starts... fussing with him. He stands behind John and tugs at the coat's shoulders, then reaches down to John's waist and fixes the hem. John stands very very still. Everywhere Sherlock touches him seems to grow warm, even through the thick fabric of the coat. Once or twice he swears he feels Sherlock's breath against the back of his neck. He wants nothing more than to close his eyes and try to focus on something else, anything else--the price of tea in China would be a good start.

After a few minutes, Sherlock shakes his head. "No. The cut's wrong. Take it off." John, frankly, has no idea what it is that Sherlock's looking for, but as far as John's concerned, there's a lot more wrong with that puffy monstrosity than just the cut.

Sherlock helps him into the second one, and smoothes it down over John's shoulders and arms before looking over his shoulder at the reflection. For a moment, their eyes meet in the mirror. There's a bit of colour in Sherlock's cheeks, and his eyes are bright. John looks away before he sees anything else, and fiddles with the buttons on the jacket. It's a heavy black cotton in an almost military cut, and feels comfortable and familiar.

"I rather like this," John says, tugging at the sleeves. Sherlock reaches around John and fastens the buttons from behind, bringing the two of them far too close together for John's comfort. Sherlock's arms are tucked under John's arms; John feels like an awkward idiot standing with his arms held out, but anything else would--be too close. John stays very still, and tries not to breathe. It takes an age for the Sherlock to finish, but finish he does, and steps back. John tries not to slump in relief. Every nerve ending is on high alert, and it's exhausting. 

Sherlock is studying John's reflection in the mirror while John tries to look anywhere but at Sherlock. Finally Sherlock says, "No. It's too dull." He waves his hand for John to take the coat off. John feels flushed, and tries to convince himself it's because he was wearing a coat indoors.

The last jacket is, frankly, a joke. It must be. It's a medium brown leather, comfortably worn and battered looking. It almost resembles a motorcycle jacket, except the cut is considerably more polished and tailored, and the brass hardware on the snaps and zip much more posh. It's a jacket meant for a man at least ten years younger than John, and he feels like a twat for even trying it on. He thinks about protesting, but lets Sherlock slide it up his arms.

Sherlock's hands stop on John's shoulders, and John forces himself to look in the mirror. 

_Bloody hell_. 

The expensive material and tailored cut save him from looking like a man who's trying to lie about his age. The sharper lines and leaner fit make him want to stand up a little straighter. John's no judge of colours, but the brown just... looks right. Normally he'd favour black, or olive, but this--it looks less like a uniform. It makes John look more like himself. Sherlock makes a quiet, approving noise behind him, and John feels his cheeks heating up again.

"I--" John stops and clears his throat. "I can't let you buy this."

"Inaccurate," Sherlock says, stepping around to John's front, and fiddling with the jacket's collar. "You can't stop me from buying this, in fact." He looks down at John with a hint of a smile. "And you don't really want to."

Bugger. "Fine." John looks away and down. "But no birthday gifts for, I don't know, say fifty years? That should about do it."

"I never buy you birthday gifts," Sherlock says, turning John around to take off the jacket.

"Well, now you're going to have to start, and then remind yourself that you can't," John says nonsensically. He feels giddy, like he's about to do something ill-advised, like leap across rooftops in Soho.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him, but thankfully chooses to ignore the comment. "Come on, let's finish up and get out of here. You still haven't written up the Thompson case yet."

John raises his left arm, indicating the cast. "My typing speed is a little slower than usual," he says.

"John, you only type with two fingers. How could you possibly get any slower?" Sherlock weaves through the displays towards the counter, and John follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to prettyarbitrary, because I stole the idea of Sherlock dressing John entirely from her amazing ["Dress Sense"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/320585). Seriously, go read it if you haven't.


	9. Hanging Out with Friends

The trouble starts almost as soon as they arrive at Scotland Yard. Sherlock couldn't put off coming in for paperwork any longer, so they walk into the Yard a few minutes after ten AM. Passing by the detectives' desks in the bullpen, someone whistles as the two of them walk past. Sherlock frowns and walks faster. 

As soon as they step into Lestrade's office, he greets them with, "Nice coat!"

Startled, John grins, and stands a little straighter. "Ta, Greg. Had to replace the old one, after--"

"There's no getting river water out of leather, I could've warned you," Lestrade says. "Still, good job on the new one."

"Can we get on with this?" Sherlock says. "I have an experiment that I need to check on every two hours."

"Fine, fine," Lestrade says, pulling a file from the pile on his desk. "I just need to get you both to sign a few things..."

Later, on their way out, Sally Donovan stops them and smiles at John. "Listen, there's a group of us going down to the pub later, around seven. You should stop in."

John isn't sure, but he thinks that may be the first time Sally's spoken to him without including some sort of sneer at Sherlock. "Yeah, okay," he says, and Sherlock scowls and pulls him away. "See you then," John calls over his shoulder.

Sherlock ignores him the entire cab ride home, and spends the afternoon doing something in the kitchen that for all John knows involves pulling the wings off flies, or possibly strangling badgers. To judge from the occasional loud thumps and mutters, his money's on the badgers.

He finally manages to write up the Thompson case, and by the time he's finished, his arms are aching from unfamiliar movement. John stands and stretches, grimacing and pressing his good hand into the small of his back. It's nearly six, so he's got just enough time to shower and get dressed before heading down to the pub. On his way upstairs, he pokes his head into the kitchen. "Sherlock, are you planning to come along tonight?"

Sherlock looks up at him through safety goggles and frowns before shoving the goggles to the top of his head. "You're not really taking that invitation."

"I am, yeah," John says. "I'm going to leave in about half an hour, if you're coming too."

Sherlock's frown deepens to a scowl and he pulls the goggles back down. John takes that as a no, and goes upstairs to get ready.

On a whim, John dresses with a little more care that he normally might: making sure he's wearing the jeans that fit him best, taking a little more time on his hair. Honestly, he's not likely to pull anybody from the Yard, but there might be someone else interesting there. If he feels a little pang of guilt at the thought of pulling anyone at all, he shoves it down quickly.

He goes downstairs to find Sherlock sitting at his--John's--computer, completely dressed. "You decided to come along?" John asks.

Sherlock looks up at him with such intensity that John almost steps back. "Given that you are planning something ill-advised, yes, I am."

"Going to the pub is ill-advised?" John says lightly, pulling on his coat. Sherlock just keeps looking at him, so John says, "Well, come on then."

The pub is down by the Yard, and is a favorite of the Met. It's noisy and crowded and the energy in the room instantly gives John a little boost. He's grinning as he weaves through the room with Sherlock behind him. 

"John!" Molly Hooper materialises from the crowd in front of him. Her cheeks are flushed and John suspects she's more than a little tipsy. "Hi!" She reaches up and tugs playfully at the open collar of his jacket. Definitely tipsy.

"Hi Molly." John can't help but grin a little wider. "All right?"

"Great! You?" Molly is smiling at him from beneath her eyelashes and still toying with his collar. She's close enough that John can smell her perfume--it's not anything she's worn to the lab, that's for sure.

"Hello, Molly," says Sherlock. John expects that Molly will go back to her usual fluttery self. John is wrong.

"Sherlock! What are you doing here?" She turns her attention back to John. "Did he lose a bet?"

John laughs. "No, I think he's here to keep me out of trouble."

Molly-- _Molly Hooper_ of all people--pouts at him. John's starting to think 'tipsy' isn't a strong enough word. "Sherlock, you never let John have any fun."

Sherlock's hand is on John's elbow. "Come on, John. I think I hear Anderson's ludicrous laugh from here."

"We'll see you in a bit, Molly," John says, as he's all but dragged off. "Sherlock, that was rude," he says once they're out of earshot. "She was just being friendly."

"Even you wouldn't think about pulling Molly Hooper when she's drunk," Sherlock says.

"It wasn't--" 

They reach the table where the others are, and John closes his mouth. 

"Good god, is that Sherlock?" Lestrade is holding court at a large table. His detectives are there, Donovan, Dimmock, and a few others John can't remember. A few folks from Forensics are there, including one of Anderson's assistants. John's seen her around a few crime scenes, and has been trying to figure out how to get her number for weeks... Mary. That was her name.

"Yes, Sherlock decided I would get in too much trouble on my own," John says, sliding into an empty seat next to Mary. She smiles at him and he smiles back. 

"Isn't he usually the one who gets you _into_ trouble?" asks Dimmock, gesturing at John's cast. 

Sherlock sits, but he doesn't look happy about it, squeezing in between Dimmock and Lestrade. "If you lot were a little more competent, there wouldn't be so much 'trouble', as you put it, for John and me to get into."

"Well, you're a ray of sunshine, as always," Lestrade says, signalling for a new round. 

"I read your blog," Mary says. She's definitely cute, with short reddish blonde hair and blue eyes. Not quite a petite build, but she's shorter than he is, which is sort of novel.

"Oh?" John smiles. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing that.

Instead of asking him about cases, Mary finishes her drink and asks, "Where did you serve? In Afghanistan?"

"I was with the RAMC in Camp Bastion, mostly," John says, bracing himself for awkward questions. 

Instead she smiles a crooked sort of smile and plays with her empty glass. "Surprised I didn't run into you sooner. I was a CMT attached to the 40 Commando."

"That's... a tough job," John says, trying to picture the woman in front of him loaded down with gear and possibly trying to help carry an injured Royal Marine to safety.

The next round comes, preventing her immediate response. "How were you going to finish that sentence, Dr. Watson?" Mary grins. "Think carefully about your answer."

John laughs and shakes his head. "No, that was the end of it." He glances up and sees Sherlock watching him. He smiles awkwardly, then hides behind his pint, taking a long drink. "A combat medic. You really were?"

"And yet you were the one who got shot," Mary says. "There are just some people they shouldn't allow in the field." She nods at his cast. "I see your luck has held out here on the homefront."

"I think my luck has been pretty good, actually," John says, with his most charming smile. "Especially lately."

He tries to ignore the pointed stare from Sherlock as Mary smiles back.


	10. With Animal Ears

The next morning, John wakes up and he's still smiling. Not only does he have Mary's number, but they're going to go out for coffee later in the week. Sherlock isn't talking to him--or he wasn't the night before. That's enough to make John stop smiling. Flirting in front of him like that was... probably a crap thing to do, in retrospect. He'd blame the alcohol, but he hadn't had that much to drink.

John sits up and rubs his face, the good feeling draining away. Should he apologise, or would that make things worse? He's not sorry that he chatted Mary up--she proved to be witty and charming, and after nearly two years of civilian life, the shared military background is an added bit of intrigue. But... yeah, his timing could have been better.

Right. Well, he may as well get the day started. 

Sherlock is in the kitchen in full experiment mode. He's in his dressing gown, but John would wager his next pension check that Sherlock hasn't been to bed yet. "Don't touch anything," he says when John walks into the kitchen yawning.

"Can I get a cup of tea?"

"No, definitely not. Go downstairs if you want breakfast."

Going downstairs to get tea means going back upstairs first to finish getting dressed. John is no longer in the mood to apologise to Sherlock. He turns around and goes back to his room, muttering.

Still, when he comes back from Speedy's, he brings back two cups of tea and an assortment of nibbles to share, in case Sherlock decides to eat.

He finds a clear spot on the counter and sets the things down, handing Sherlock his tea. "So what are you working on today?" John asks.

"Comparisons of tissue decomposition before and after freezing," Sherlock says without looking up, gesturing to a series of small trays lining the parts of the counter that are thankfully nowhere near where John put breakfast. 

John, knowing he probably doesn't want to know, but helpless to keep from looking anyway, peers into the trays. Each contains a pair of small and furry bits of tissue, some quite fresh and some quite... not. It takes John a minute to realise what he's looking at. "Sherlock... you weren't actually strangling badgers in here yesterday, were you?"

Sherlock looks up at him from his microscope as if John's gone mad. "What?"

John laughs, and he can't help it. It turns a little hysterical. After a moment, it stops in a series of hiccoughs. "Nothing, nothing. Where did you get the ears?"

"Around," Sherlock says, nonchalantly enough that John looks at him more closely.

"Around?" John looks more closely into the trays. He's no animal expert, but all of the animals he can recognise are wildlife, including the aforementioned badgers. "Are we going to have Lestrade showing up on a poaching bust?"

"Don't be ridiculous. They were already dead when I found them."

John blinks. The weather, he realises, had been below freezing not so long ago. "So when you said, 'before and after freezing', you meant..."

"That some of them had been frozen first, yes."

"Roadkill," John says. He picks up the bag from Speedy's. Even across the kitchen seems too close now.

"Oh, think of it as recycling," Sherlock says. "They would have been thrown in the bin anyway."

John starts to answer, but his mobile chimes.

  
From: Mary 10:05  
How's your head this morning?  


John smiles and pecks his way through a response.

  
To: Mary 10:05  
Not bad. You won't believe what my mad bastard flatmate is doing this morning.  


John takes both his tea and breakfast towards the sitting room. "There's food in here, when you get tired of playing with your roadkill."

Sherlock just sniffs and goes back to his microscope.

  
From: Mary 10:10  
Do I want to know?  


  
To: Mary 10:11  
Dissecting roadkill. In the kitchen.  


  
From: Mary 10:12  
Remind me never to come over for dinner.  


John finishes his breakfast and goes on about the rest of his day, which includes laundry and trying to get his bills paid, not to mention trying to tidy around Sherlock's roadkill experiment. He and Mary text throughout the day, and several times he catches himself laughing out loud at something she's said.

It's late in the afternoon when she's finishing up a story about how some of her mates in Afghanistan nearly caused an accidental riot, and John has to stop what he's doing and catch his breath from trying to suppress his laughter. He goes into the kitchen to check on the possibilities for dinner as his mobile chimes again. Sherlock is still peering into the microscope, although the number of trays on the kitchen counter has greatly decreased.

"Forty-nine," Sherlock says.

"Hm?" 

"Texts," Sherlock says.

John has the good grace to blush, remembering how intently he had watched things develop between Sherlock and Irene Adler, how--well, if he's honest with himself--how jealous he'd been. There was no other word for it, and Irene had called him on it. "Right," John says, leaning against an empty space on the counter. "Sherlock, I just wanted to say--"

Sherlock never looks up from his experiment. "At least this one isn't entirely unbearable," he says. 

"Um." John crosses his feet, then uncrosses them. "Thanks... I think?"

"Mm," Sherlock says. "Hand me my laptop, please. And if you're ordering a takeaway, avoid the Thai. The food on Thursdays there is horrid. The head cook takes Thursdays off."

John shakes his head and swings up from the counter to do as he's told.


	11. Wearing Kigurumi

"I may not be able to stay long," Mary says, sitting down across from John, "so I should apologise now. I'd promised to sit with my sister's kids."

The coffee shop is busy, but not overly loud, and John managed to snag a quiet table away from the counter when he first came in. "Oh, you're an Auntie Mary then? How old?"

Mary grins at him over her coffee cup. "Me, or them?"

"Cheeky." John grins back. "Them, I know better."

"Olivia is four, and Jack will be two in a month." Then she adds, "And Auntie Mary is thirty-six. So there. Now you know everything."

"Two and four, you're going to have your hands full then," John says.

"Careful, or I'll dig out pictures to show you," she warns. "I'm a very proud auntie."

John smiles, pulling at the edges of the sleeve around his cup. "So no kids yourself, then?"

Mary shakes her head. "Too busy being shot at and then snooping around crime scenes. You?"

"Same here," John says, then chuckles. "Well, unless you count Sherlock, who can be a bloody great child, on occasion."

"One who dissects animals on your kitchen table, apparently," Mary says, laughing. She puts down her coffee cup. "John, I hope this doesn't sound rude, but... you and Sherlock... there's a lot of gossip in the department about the two of you."

John's first reaction is to issue his usual denials, but something in Mary's face stops him. He sighs. "Well, first off, the gossip isn't true."

"I hear a 'but' coming," Mary says.

John shakes his head. "No, honestly. We're not together. And I'm not gay."

Mary smiles, just a little bit teasing. "Not even a little? Maybe a little for him?" John doesn't know how to answer that. "John, I saw the way he was looking at you when you and I were talking the other night."

John rubs at his forehead, resting his elbow on the table. "Yeah, it's... complicated."

"So you are interested in him."

"No, I--" John growls, because there aren't words in English that seem to fit what he feels. "He's _Sherlock_. He--" His mobile chimes with an incoming text. "He's texting me, apparently."

  
From: Sherlock 18:53  
Sending you an address. Stop in and pick up kigurumi costume. Needed for case.  
-SH  


The next message was an address in Whitechapel.

"Speak of the devil," John says. He thumbs a response.

  
To: Sherlock 18:54  
Any particular size?  


 

  
From: Sherlock 18:54  
Yours.  


_Of course._

"All right?" Mary asks, eyeing him closely.

"Yeah," John says. "He just needs me to pick something up on the way home."

"Oh? White lab mice this time, or something a little larger to dissect?"

John laughs. "You're not going to let the dissection thing die, are you?"

Mary leans back in her chair. "I could go back to asking you difficult questions about your feelings for your flatmate--who, by the way, is clearly pretty head over heels in love with you."

John opens his mouth, then closes it again. Mary reaches across the table and takes his uninjured hand. "Look. I like you, John. In fact, I like you quite a lot."

"Mary, I--"

"I wasn't finished," Mary says. "This situation with Sherlock, you're pretty confused about it, yeah? You and I--well, I still want to spend time with you, but... I also don't want to see anybody get hurt. Least of all me."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you need to figure out what you meant by 'It's complicated'."

  
From: Sherlock 19:02  
When it's convenient.  
-SH  


"It's him again, isn't it?" Mary asks.

John gives her a sheepish look. "I'm sorry."

She stands up and picks up her coat and bag, and leans over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "He interrupts your dates all the time, doesn't he?" She doesn't wait for an answer, but shakes her head. "Usually when people say 'it's complicated', it's because they may not be sure what they want, but they know it's not what they have. The two of you _could_ try talking, really."

Then she walks toward the door, turning around to give him a smile just before she walks out. 

***

John gets back to the flat after a long, circuitous trip home during which he tried very hard not to think about what's in the bag he's carrying, and whose size its in. If Sherlock were the type to play pranks, this would be one, surely.

Coming up the stairs, he calls, "Sherlock? There'd better be at least four lives depending on this bloody costume. Six, if you actually want me to put it on."

Sherlock doesn't look up from his laptop. "I expected you an hour ago."

"I did have plans this evening, you know," John says, coming into the sitting room. 

"Yes," Sherlock says. "Well, as painful as it must have been to be pulled away from a scintillating conversation about Miss Morstan's three cats, I thought this case was more important."

John lets it go, for now. "So I brought the costume."

"Excellent," Sherlock says. "Go put it on, and come back in here. A man's alibi depends on it."

"Oh god, Sherlock, do I have to?"

Sherlock just looks at him. John slinks away to the bathroom to change. Maybe it's not as "complicated" as he'd originally thought. 

In the bag he'd brought from the store is a giant pink monstrosity. They're like footed pajamas that have been subjected to some sort of horrible mutating experiment. After a moment's thought, John shucks his jeans and his jumper, and pulls it on. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and wonders where he went wrong in his life, that he is currently wearing enormous pink bunny ears attached to pink fleece bunny pajamas.

The clerk at the store had assured him it was the only one left in John's size. John either suspects the clerk was having him on, or that the clerk was telling the truth because really, who would want this?

"Christ," John mutters, and opens the bathroom door.

The silence that falls when Sherlock sees him is thunderous. Sherlock is staring as if he's surprised, and he bloody well shouldn't be, it was his idea.

"John."

"What."

"...what in the name of god are you wearing?"

"This is what you told me to get!" John can feel his feet starting to sweat. "I showed the clerk your text, and this is what he gave me."

"John, I _clearly_ said to bring home a Ligurian costume. From Italy. It involves a knitted jacket, which I rather thought you'd appreciate, and--"

"No," says John. "You didn't."

"I did."

"No, just--" Oh _hell_ his mobile is in his jeans pocket. John stomps back to the bathroom, as much as one can stomp in fluffy bunny feet, and retrieves his phone. He finds the text and goes back to the sitting room, holding his phone out to Sherlock. "See?"

Sherlock takes his mobile, frowns, then checks his own mobile. He types in it, then scowls. "Why is my phone changing 'Ligurian' to 'kigurumi'?" 

"Auto-correct?" John says. "I'm dressed as a fucking rabbit because of fucking _auto-correct_?" He starts to unzip the costume, then remembers he's only in a shirt and pants beneath it, so turns to go back to the bathroom.

"John, wait," Sherlock says.

When John looks up, Sherlock is pointing his mobile at John. "I just want to get something to remember this..."

"Don't you fucking dare," John growls.

Sherlock grins, and John hears the shutter click.

"Oh you bastard," John says, and goes after Sherlock. "Delete that, delete it right now."

"Make me," Sherlock says, and of course he's taller, so John can't reach. They wind up standing by the sofa, with Sherlock holding his mobile tauntingly over John's head, just out of reach. "I should send a copy to the Met. Oh--would Mary see it then, do you think?"

John makes one desperate jump for it, and misses. Sherlock body-checks him into the sofa, and he lands with a grunt. Before John can get up, Sherlock follows after, pinning John to the cushions with one hand, holding his phone with the other. "Now," Sherlock says, "time to send this to everyone you know..."

"Sherlock," he says meekly, "please. Don't."

Sherlock looks down at him, and then starts laughing. "You look absolutely ridiculous."

Something about seeing Sherlock actually laughing catches John off-guard. It makes Sherlock look younger, a little more vulnerable, and before John can think better of it, he says, "You don't." Sherlock stops laughing, but still smiles, one eyebrow raised. 

"You don't," John repeats, and stops making any move to escape.


	12. Making Out

Neither one of them says anything for several heartbeats, just watching each other. John is getting uncomfortably warm in his layers of pink bunny-shaped fleece, but forces himself to stay still. He isn't sure, exactly, what he's waiting for. 

He realises what it is when Sherlock starts to lean down toward him. John can see every minute movement of Sherlock's eyes as he scans John's face. It always feels like Sherlock's reading John's every emotion as if they're written on his skin in indelible ink. He's wondering what Sherlock sees, when Sherlock closes the distance and kisses him.

It's a careful kiss, so very very careful, but the caution doesn't matter in the end. John feels the same sense of helplessness he felt the first time Sherlock kissed him--well, the second time, after the peck in the kitchen. He can try to tell himself it's because Sherlock still has him pinned to the couch, but John is a terrible liar, even to himself.

This time, it's John who parts his lips first, and he feels Sherlock go tense against him before responding in kind. John tugs at his hands, and Sherlock lets him go. Unlike before, John feels no uncertainty about what to do with his hands. The hand in the cast lies against Sherlock's shoulder, but his right hand tangles in Sherlock's hair. He thinks about what Mary said earlier, about not knowing what he wants. He still doesn't know, but lying here with his arms around Sherlock and their legs threatening to tangle feels like a start.

Sherlock pulls back before the kiss gets too intense and gives John a questioning look. "You can't run like this," he murmurs.

John shakes his head and pulls Sherlock back down. He takes the lead, licking at Sherlock's mouth until Sherlock opens for him. The touch of their tongues sends the same shock through John as it did before, but this time he's ready for it. Sherlock pushes the ridiculous bunny ears off John's head, then braces himself with his hands on either side of John.

Sherlock draws John's tongue into his mouth and starts to suck lightly, and John can't prevent a quiet groan. It must reassure Sherlock enough for him to get bolder. He slips one hand under John's neck, tilting John's head back so Sherlock can taste the skin of his neck. John involuntarily tightens his hand in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock gasps, his hips rocking down against John's thigh. It's still an odd feeling, and still a little uncomfortable, but Sherlock's teeth nipping at his earlobe prove a distraction from his uncertainty.

John tugs at Sherlock's hair again, and the low, rumbling groan he gets in response seems to land in the pit of his stomach and settle there like a good Scotch. Sherlock nips at his neck before kissing him again, and this time there's no holding back. 

It's nearly an attack: Sherlock pins John's hands again, this time with intent. He settles his hips against John's thigh and presses his own thigh between John's legs. Sherlock's mouth seems to be _everywhere_ , on John's mouth, on his neck, against his jawline. John can barely breathe for his racing heart, all he can do is squirm and arch beneath Sherlock. 

He can feel Sherlock growing hard against his thigh, and he can feel his own cock twitching and starting to express an interest in what's happening. Part of his mind is responding with shock and a little bit of panic, but John tries to shut it down in favor of the soft wet sweetness of Sherlock licking at his pulse point, in favour of letting Sherlock unzip the ridiculous costume that was the start of all of this, letting Sherlock run his hand down John's chest, his thumb over one of John's nipples.

When Sherlock starts to unbutton John's shirt though, John breaks. "Sherlock, wait."

Sherlock draws back, looking at John with such an uneasy wariness that it hurts John's heart a little. "No," John says. "It's... it's fine. I"--he licks his lips and swallows--"I like this, I like, well, kissing you." He pulls his hand free and catches Sherlock's hand on his chest, bringing it to his lips. 

Sherlock rests his forehead against John's, breathing a little heavily. "But you're not sure about everything else."

"Well, in my defence," John says, laughing shakily, "I have spent well over two decades convinced that the only penis I was interested in was my own."

"I can't blame you," Sherlock says, sliding down to murmur into John's ear. "It certainly interests me." Then he laughs when John shivers.

"You are a very bad man," John says, but he smiles. "Let me up. I am not going to keep snogging you while I'm dressed as a rabbit."

Sherlock does, but then catches John's hand before he gets too far from the sofa. "Will you come back once you've changed?"

John squeezes Sherlock's hand. "Yeah. For a bit. I want to see if it feels any different without the rabbit ears."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now [crazy adorable artwork of grumpy-bunny!John](http://roane72.tumblr.com/post/42719953605/prettyarbitrary-for-roane-grumpy-bunny-john) thanks to the amazing prettyarbitrary.


	13. Eating Ice Cream

John is still reeling from the previous day's snogging session with Sherlock, so when Mary texts to see if he's available, he is. The film is instantly forgettable and uncomplicated, which is perfect. It's bloody freezing out, but Mary wants ice cream, so they stop on the way back to her flat and buy some.

It was a little awkward, telling Sherlock where he was going, but Sherlock just nodded absently, not looking up from his microscope as John left. Sherlock seems more settled now, more secure, and John isn't sure how he feels about that either. Sherlock was bad about taking John for granted before, god knows what he'll be like now.

As they walk back with the ice cream, Mary takes his arm. It's nice, but it makes him feel a little guilty. As if she read his thoughts, she asks, "So did you end up talking to Sherlock?"

"I... did, sort of?" John stops in the middle of the sidewalk. "I should have told you this before. We... I kissed him."

If Mary is disappointed, she hides it very well. She takes his arm again and starts them moving. "And? How was it?"

"Hm? Um, good. It was... fine."

" _Fine_?" She laughs. " That's hardly a ringing endorsement, John."

"Well no, I just didn't want to--I felt like I should tell you."

They walk in silence past several buildings. "Are you a couple now, then?" she asks.

"No," John says. "I mean, I don't think that kissing someone means you're a couple, does it?"

"Kissing someone and living with them usually has that implication," Mary says.

"This isn't usual though," John says, as Mary steers them into her building. "I mean, we were living together beforehand."

Mary stops outside her door and puts her hands on her hips. "You two didn't say a bloody word to each other, did you? You just--went at each other like a couple of teenagers." She unlocks the door and mutters, "Men."

"We did, a little. I--" Oh god, he doesn't want to explain all of this, but he feels like he owes her that much. "I think he was... ready for more than I was. So we talked about that."

Mary is moving around her tiny kitchen, fetching bowls and spoons. "So you didn't..."

"No. God, no," John says, feeling a bit of the previous day's panic coming back.

She dishes out the ice cream and they settle in at her kitchen table. "Okay, let me be sure I understand this," Mary says, gesturing with her spoon. "You and Sherlock have this weird, codependent... _thing_ going on, and he's crazy about you. And you're snogging him, but you're not sure you want to do more than that because... why? Because dicks are scary?" She doesn't let him answer, although he's sure the flush in his cheeks is answer enough. "So instead, you're over here with me."

John doesn't answer right away, staring hard at his bowl of strawberry ice cream.

"John?" Mary says, and he looks up at her. "Why _are_ you here? Because as much as I like you, I'm not going to be your last-ditch effort to prove that you're completely heterosexual."

John blinks, then laughs a little. "Do you ever have a thought and not say it out loud? The two of you have that much in common, at least."

"You must like bluntness then," she says. "I'm serious. Why me?"

He forces himself to eat a spoonful of ice cream before answering. It's a question he asked himself after she texted. "Because you asked me first," he says. "You didn't assume we were a couple. You asked. And you haven't made jokes about it. And you're still... listening."

"Well, I have made a few jokes," she says, smiling.

"A few."

"So, does this make me the girl you talk about your boy problems to?" When John doesn't laugh, she says, "See, that was one of those jokes."

"No," John says, pushing his bowl away and looking for words. "It's not like that at all. If he weren't--" It's stupid, and he knows it's stupid, but all he can think of to try and say what he means. He stands up and leans over Mary and kisses her.

The difference is immediate. Kissing Mary is comfortable. It's easy. There's nothing strange about it, nothing unsettling. There's no sense of worry at his own physical reactions; the spark of arousal is uncomplicated.

Mary gently pushes him back with a chiding, "John."

"I'm sorry. Christ, I'm an idiot." He straightens up. "I should go."

"You're not going anywhere. Sit down and eat your ice cream," Mary says. John sits. "Good boy. Feel better now that you've kissed a girl?" Her tone is light, but her eyes are razor sharp.

John has the good grace to blush. "I'm an arse."

"Yes, you are," Mary agrees, but she smiles. "But you're cute, so I imagine you get away with it a lot." She reaches out and takes his hand. "John, do you love him?"

It's such an obvious question that John's startled he hasn't considered it before. He thinks about Sherlock, and thinks about the mates he had in the RAMC, at uni. He thinks about his best friend at school. Are they the same? Even putting aside the fact that he never had any desire to snog his best friend before... no. They're not the same.

Then he thinks about Sarah, about Jeanette, about any number of the women he dated in uni. And while he did desire them, and a few he even thought he loved... they're not the same either.

Sherlock is his own category, and John doesn't know what to do with that. "I don't know," he finally says. 

Mary squeezes his hand. "Then I think it's not me you need to be kissing if you want to figure this out."


	14. Genderswapped

It's another long, restless night. John can't remember the last one he slept through without waking. It's been two weeks since that night on the roof--the night that seems to have changed everything--and John hasn't slept much since. 

The third time he wakes up, he's in the middle of a dream of kissing Sherlock. And whatever reticence he has in his waking world, there is none in his dreams. He wakes with his heart racing and his cock hard. John rolls onto his back and closes his eyes, trying to will his heart rate back down, but the dream won't leave him. It was so vivid John could smell Sherlock's shampoo. In the dream, John was completely naked, but Sherlock was clothed. The dream symbolism is so obvious there it nearly makes him laugh, but for the remembrance of Sherlock's dream-hands moving over his skin.

John closes his eyes and slowly brushes his right hand down his own chest, then pauses at the waistband of his shorts. Is he really going to do this? Is he really going to get himself off while thinking about Sherlock? He remembers that first real kiss, when Sherlock took John's face in his hands and whimpered into his mouth, and John stops hesitating.

He slides his hand into his shorts, brushing his knuckles over his cock. Right-handed will be awkward, but then everything about this feels awkward. He thinks of the way Sherlock's mouth felt against his and sighs a little, arching towards his hand. The low growl in Sherlock's voice when John did something he particularly liked. John closes his hand around his cock and tries to imagine Sherlock's voice, telling him what to do, how to touch himself. _"Like that. Let me see you,"_

His heart is hammering in his chest and there's sweat on his forehead. It feels wrong to think of Sherlock this way, not morally wrong, of course not, but--'something is askew in the universe' wrong. _"John, I want to touch you."_ John arches his head back and squeezes his eyes shut.

_Mary._ He latches on to an image of her the day before: soft, worn denim covering her lovely legs and the swell of her hips, the sweet smell of her hair when he'd kissed her. His heart rate slows and some of the anxiety falls away as he starts to stroke his cock, imagining what it would be like to undress her. He imagines kissing her, and tastes strawberry ice cream.

_Sherlock hates strawberries._

Try as he might, John can't hold on to the image of Mary, but the idea of Sherlock is still too much to contemplate.

John growls in frustration. What if... he pictures Sherlock, softens his features a little, adds a curve of hip and the swell of breasts. Oh god, what if Sherlock _were_ a woman?

His cock jolts in his hand and John nearly groans aloud. He can hear that voice in his head, pitch raised just a little, but still low and husky. _"John, I want to touch you."_

Christ. The awkward, unfamiliar touch of his right hand suddenly is easy to imagine as someone else's hand. He imagines the feel of a breast--Sherlock's breast--in his hand, licking the nipple until it stands up. He imagines hearing her moan while her hand curls around his cock. His mouth is watering, wanting to lay her out on her bed downstairs and kneel between her legs, to tease her with his mouth, his tongue, while she whimpers his name.

Desire--clear, obvious, uncomplicated desire--swallows John whole as he mouths Sherlock's name. Each stroke of his cock raises goosepimples. He can't stop thinking about what she might taste like, how wet she might be. He imagines her long fingers twining in his hair, holding him tight against her while he fucks her with his tongue. She's chanting his name now, begging him to make her come.

He's so close now, so fucking close, his cock slick and hot in his hand. John imagines Sherlock coming around his tongue, as he thumbs at her clit with one hand and holds her down with the other to keep her from throwing him off as she arches and writhes.

"Sherlock," John gasps and comes so hard the room goes dim before his eyes. He falls back against his pillows, shaking and trying to catch his breath. He's a mess, the bed is a mess, he thinks he may have managed to come in his own _hair_ , for fucks sake. He laughs a little, and reaches for the tissues on his night table. 

It isn't until he's cleaned up and trying to fall back to sleep that the ache begins. He'll never have what he just imagined. Sherlock is, John realises, the perfect partner for him in a lot of ways. Almost every way, in fact. Except one.

And that seems ridiculous. Why not that one? _"Because dicks are scary?"_ Said aloud, the way Mary did, it sounds idiotic. It sounds like John is a twat for dodging a partnership that most people never find, only because his partner has a different configuration of genitalia than he's accustomed to.

The post-orgasm relaxation is long gone, and now it seems that sleep will be a while off, so John thinks. He's attracted to Sherlock. He knows that much. When Sherlock is in danger, John regularly and willingly puts his own life on the line to keep him safe. And he respects Sherlock. They fit together in 221B, for all their bickering and rows. John knows he will likely never find this with anyone else.

And what he keeps coming back to: he is attracted to Sherlock. To _Sherlock_. John closes his eyes again and thinks about kissing Sherlock, and forces himself to focus on the things he tried to ignore before: the feel of another man's stubble against his face, the flat chest pressed tight against him, the way it had felt when Sherlock's cock rubbed against his thigh. He thinks about what it _meant_ , that he did that to Sherlock. He thinks about Sherlock coming as hard as John just did, and saying John's name while he did it.

Then he waits for the panic.

When he finally falls asleep, he's still waiting.


	15. In a Different Clothing Style

John is reading the morning's paper when Sherlock comes in with a large garment bag over his arm.

"You... actually went to the cleaners?" John asks, looking at him over the _Daily Mail_. "On your own?"

"No," says Sherlock, and disappears into his room, closing the door with a bang.

John has a moment of worry. Had Sherlock heard something the night before? It couldn't be that--he wouldn't be angry over that, surely. Was he angry that John had gone out with Mary?

No, this is Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't do the silent treatment. Well, not intentionally, anyway. 

John has just reached the conclusion that Sherlock was distracted by some Sherlockian errand only he would understand when Sherlock's bedroom door opens. John hears footsteps before he sees Sherlock, and at first he thinks that someone else broke into Sherlock's room. The even thud of his steps are nothing like Sherlock's light, stealthy step. Sherlock steps around the corner and the cognitive dissonance leaves John speechless for a moment.

Sherlock is wearing full British Army No. 5 combat dress, from the cypress green beret of the Intelligence Corps worn (incorrectly, John notes) on his head, right down to his boots.

"What the hell are you doing?" asks John.

"Reconnaissance," Sherlock says, with a smirk.

"Are you planning to fool anybody? Because unless you're planning a walk-on in an ITV drama, you're not going to get very far," John says, folding his paper.

Sherlock gets that haughty look he gets when he's wrong about something. "Don't be ridiculous. Mycroft assures me this is entirely accurate."

John steps into Sherlock's space and takes the beret off his head. "Well Mycroft clearly didn't have the same drill sergeants I did." He looks up at Sherlock with as much withering force as he can muster, and waits until Sherlock's eyes twitch away for a second. "Right," John says. "If either of you had half the brains you think you do, you might've asked me to do whatever mad thing you have planned. Especially if you're trying to infiltrate somewhere."

Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes still fixed on John. They're still standing entirely too close for a casual conversation, but neither of them is moving. "You don't know what to look for."

"Well you could _tell me_ ," John says. "Because everything else aside, unless you're planning to get a haircut, you're never going to get past the front door."

"Ah!" Sherlock says, and ducks back into his room. When he returns, John almost does a double-take. Instead of the slightly unruly mop of dark hair, Sherlock now has a neatly trimmed head of light brown hair, just a few shades darker than John's. It's a wig, it has to be, but it's a damned good one.

"Better," John says grudgingly, and steps up to put the beret on correctly. He lingers, brushing a stray bit of wig back from Sherlock's forehead. Then he backs up, and looks over Sherlock in appraisal. "When are you planning this secret mission of yours?"

"In about an hour," Sherlock says.

"An hour?" John laughs. "You'll never do it. For starters, the creases on your collar are shite, and you actually put on the boots Mycroft issued you, didn't you?"

"They're military-issued boots," Sherlock says.

"And they're awful," John says, "which is why you'd buy your own if you actually had to march in them."

"John." Sherlock's voice is low and coaxing. "I have to walk into MI-5 headquarters in an hour and pick up a message meant for a high-ranking member of Parliament." He sways closer, looming just a bit over John. "What do I need to do?"

"Christ," says John, looking up at Sherlock's familiar features framed in such an unlikely disguise. "Are you telling me that national security depends on me kitting you out like a proper soldier, in less than an hour?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, his eyes darting over John's face. "Are you up for it?"

"I guess I have to be, don't I?" John reaches up and starts unbuttoning the uniform shirt that Sherlock is wearing. "The trousers are passable, but this shirt has to be re-ironed properly." He pushes the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders and tugs it out of his trousers before he actually thinks about the fact that he's undressing Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, is just looking down at him with a little smirk. "Shut it," John says, and pulls him down by the t-shirt to give him a short kiss before going to heat up the iron.

Some things, it seems, you never entirely forget. It takes John about ten minutes to get the shirt ironed to razor-creased perfection, during which time Sherlock just leans in the kitchen doorway with his arms folded across his chest. It's incredibly distracting, really. John has never seen Sherlock in a t-shirt that wasn't ancient and shapeless. Seeing him in one that fits a bit close, in the same dark green of his beret, is... having more of an effect than John would have suspected. 

John's run into his share of military groupies. He gets the appeal of the uniform for some people, but for him the uniform is about as sexy as a janitor's uniform, or the postman's. And yet, something about Sherlock's long, lean form stretched out against the doorframe in camo and dark green, something about the way he almost looks the part but for the wrong boots and the insolent smirk, makes John's mouth go dry and his palms go wet.

"Everything all right?" Sherlock asks, smirking a little more, like he knows exactly what John is thinking--which he probably does. "Careful you don't burn that shirt."

John ducks his head, but he's grinning. "You bastard. Here." He tosses the shirt at Sherlock, who catches it.

"Aren't you going to make sure I button it correctly?" Sherlock says. John rolls his eyes, but steps forward and takes the shirt from Sherlock, helping him into it and fastening the buttons one by one. If he takes a little bit of extra time with it, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.

John steps back. "You can bloody well tuck it in yourself," he says.

Sherlock refastens his trousers and straightens up. "Right," says John, "now the beret. And the patch goes right over your eye, _right_ over." When Sherlock doesn't get it quite right, John steps in again and corrects it, leaning against Sherlock a little in order to reach. Then he steps back. "So what's your cover story? And can you actually tell me what rank you're supposed to be?"

There's no other way for John to describe it, it's like Sherlock's bones and muscles _shift_ , and Sherlock is suddenly standing at attention, his face a careful blank. 

"Lieutenant Alan Ramsay, sir," Sherlock says. His voice is just a touch higher than normal, the accent slightly broader.

"Jesus, it's creepy when you do that," John says admiringly.

"Yes sir, thank you, Captain Watson," Sherlock says, without even a twitch of a smile and no sign of breaking character.

"Okay, stop calling me sir, and _definitely_ don't call me 'Captain Watson'," John says, feeling the blood rising in his cheeks.

Sherlock breaks and grins, his shoulders rounding and softening. "Will I pass?"

"Hmph," John says. "You might. Just don't mouth off to anybody." That earns him a salute, and the form isn't half-bad at all. "And text me when you're done, will you? Just so I know MI-5 hasn't tossed you into a cell for impersonating an officer."

Sherlock walks over and leans down to kiss John, his eyes gleaming. "Don't wait up."


	16. During Their Morning Ritual(s)

Sherlock never texts.

He doesn't answer John's texts, either.

And Mycroft doesn't answer John's calls.

By midnight, John has nearly worn a path in the floor between his laptop and the kitchen, pacing back and forth. Sherlock must have got caught. Something happened, and now Sherlock's being held by MI-5 and is going to be charged with espionage. Or treason. Or something even worse.

He finally falls asleep on the sofa sometime after three, his mobile in his hand.

The first watery beams of daylight wake him, and John fumbles for his mobile, which fell to the floor as he slept. It takes him two tries to bring up his messages, between his bleary eyes and his sleep-bewitched fingers.

Nothing.

_Goddamn it, Sherlock._ John sits up and rubs at his eye with his palm, then drags his hand down his face. He drops his head down, then briskly shakes it and stands up.

As the kettle is starting to boil, he sends a series of texts:

  
To: Greg 06:25  
Did you hear from Sherlock at all yesterday?  


 

  
To: Molly 06:25  
Did you hear from Sherlock at all yesterday?  


 

  
To: M. Holmes 06:25  
I still haven't heard from Sherlock. Where the hell is he?  


The kettle clicks off and John makes tea. It's not the first morning he's made just one cup, but every time it's a little unsettling. He glances down the hall into Sherlock's bedroom, and just on a whim, he walks down to check. The bed is empty, and hasn't been slept in.

He's just sitting down with his tea when his mobile chimes. He nearly knocks it off the table trying to grab it.

  
From: Greg 06:32  
Nothing yesterday. Did you lose him (finally)?  


John suppresses his initial response as rude and not very productive, and focuses on his tea. It occurs to him that this isn't the first morning he's sat worrying in his tea over Sherlock. It probably won't be the last, either. He sighs and rubs his eyes.

He tries to go through his usual routine. After tea, shower. After shower, shaving. Every time he has the tap on he shuts it off every minute or so because he thinks he hears his mobile.

Finally, it chimes.

  
From: M. Holmes 06:53  
Sherlock had some unexpected difficulty. I expect to hear from him this morning.  


John hits the 'dial' button so hard his finger stings.

"John," says Mycroft.

"What the hell do you mean, 'had some unexpected difficulty'?" John asks. "Where is he?"

"He's _fine_ , John," Mycroft says, his tone dripping with irritation that John would be so gauche as to express concern. "I'll have him contact you when he's available, but in the meantime, this is not the place for further discussion."

"Where is the place then? Your office? On my way," John says, mentally adding, 'you officious bastard'.

"There's no need," Mycroft says. "I assure you. Your presence here would do more harm than good. I'm sorry, but you'll just have to wait." He rings off before John can say anything further.

"Fuck!" John throws his mobile across the sitting room. Then promptly goes to pick it up, feeling like a twat. He briefly considers going to Mycroft's office anyway. He spends a good five minutes imagining what it would feel like to punch him, then decides that the fallout probably isn't worth it.

He sits down in his chair by the hearth and fidgets. It seems like there should be something he can do, some way he can help but there... isn't. The helplessness of it roils in his gut. It's like the wait between hearing about incoming wounded and actually being able to start fixing them. There is nothing he can do.

Even taking a walk sounds like a terrible idea. What if Sherlock comes home while he's out? Everything he tries to do ends up reminding him of another horrible thing that might've happened to Sherlock. Reading the paper? That's out, stories of unsolved murders and bodies that were never found. Writing the blog? Not a chance. He can barely focus enough to write his own name. Plus several of the latest comments are addressed to Sherlock. What happens if Sherlock is never able to answer them again? Christ, when did he get so melodramatic?

After a few hours of aimless moving from one half-finished task to another, John is exhausted. He winds up standing in Sherlock's bedroom looking at nothing. His mobile has been silent for an hour. The last message he got was from Molly, apologising for not knowing where Sherlock was.

John sits down on the edge of Sherlock's bed and rubs his face. He flops over onto his side, and for a few moments is comforted by the smell of Sherlock clinging to the pillowcase. He's never done this before, and tells himself it's just a few minutes.

Before he can tell himself anything else, John is fast asleep, his mobile clutched in his hand.


	17. Spooning

_Sherlock is dangling below him from the ledge. "I don’t think I can hold on that long." John has to do something, but his hand is still in a cast and he has no rope to lower._

_John stretches down over the edge with everything he has, but it's not enough. "You have to try and reach me," he says._

_It's a mistake. Even as he says it, John knows, the way one knows in dreams, that it's a mistake, and Sherlock is going to fall. "I trust you, John," Sherlock says, and reaches up._

_And falls._

_John throws himself over the ledge, keeping a grip with just the tips of his fingers. Now he's the one dangling over the edge, but it worked: Sherlock caught him and is hanging on to his legs. The double weight on his injured hand is excruciating, and he fights to keep from screaming. If Sherlock thinks John is in pain, he might let go, and that is unacceptable._

_Then Sherlock starts to climb. Agonising moments pass, and Sherlock manages to pull himself up to John's shoulders. John's fingers are numb and his arms are howling, but he holds on, for Sherlock._

_Sherlock's voice is in John's ear. "Let me climb up, and I'll pull you up behind me. It's the only way."_

_But John doesn't love Sherlock the way Sherlock loves John, and Sherlock knows that. He could let John fall and it would serve John right. Sherlock's weight on his back is too tight, crushing him. It's going to kill them both. He has to let Sherlock go ahead; he has to trust him._

_"I do love you," John says. "I do--"_

"John." Sherlock's voice in his ear. John is sweaty and his mouth is dry. The light is wrong. The wallpaper is wrong. And the weight at his back--

\--is Sherlock.

John remembers everything. He's in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was missing, but is now curled up behind him with his arm thrown across John's chest and his face buried at the back of John's neck.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" John tries to turn around, to sit up, but Sherlock's arm tightens. There are a few scrapes on Sherlock's arm that weren't there the day before.

"John, it's fine," Sherlock says, still clinging to him. "You were having a nightmare."

For a mad moment, John thinks that it was all a nightmare: Sherlock posing as a soldier, the previous day's worry--but no. John can see the sleeve of the uniform t-shirt Sherlock was wearing when he left the flat.

"What _happened_?"

Sherlock sighs; John can feel the expanding and contracting of his rib cage against John's back, the rush of air against the nape of his neck. It tickles, but John is too irritated to laugh. He can't control the goosebumps that raise over his arms, though. "I should have let you go," Sherlock says.

"What did you just say?" Maybe he is still dreaming.

"You heard me perfectly well."

"Did you just say you were wrong about something?" John tries again to turn over, but Sherlock won't let him, keeping John pinned against Sherlock's chest.

"For the record," Sherlock begins, "their suspicions weren't aroused by anything in my uniform or my bearing."

"Sherlock, tell me what happened."

"The identification card I was carrying raised some red flags as I was leaving," Sherlock says.

"Stole it, did you?" John says, starting to relax a little, warm with Sherlock's shared body heat.

"No," Sherlock says. "But it wasn't as foolproof as we--as I--expected."

"We."

"I," Sherlock corrects. "I was able to leave the offices, but one of them followed me. I had to take... countermeasures." He presses his forehead against John's shoulder, and John takes Sherlock's hand where it rests against his chest. He leans back against Sherlock, only to hear a muffled wince.

"Are you all right?" John asks, turning to look. He doesn't see anything but the top of Sherlock's head, as he nods against John's shoulder. John frowns, but lets it go for the moment. "So you're telling me you spent all of last night and most of the day before hiding from MI-5 agents?"

Sherlock chuckled. "No. Just one. But he was very persistent."

"I still don't understand why Mycroft didn't just tell them they have a leak."

John can feel Sherlock shaking his head. "Until he tracks it down, he can't. It's someone high up, high enough to stop any investigation."

John tries yet again to roll over, but Sherlock doesn't let him. "Why didn't you at least text me? I was worried sick, Sherlock."

There's a sigh, and Sherlock presses a soft kiss behind John's ear, and John shivers. "I couldn't," Sherlock says. "They might have been monitoring my mobile. I couldn't take the chance."

John trails his fingers over the new scrapes on Sherlock's forearm, "How did you get these?"

"Crawling beneath a lorry in an alleyway, if you can believe it," Sherlock says lightly--too lightly. Sherlock is definitely hiding something.

John pulls away, and this time he doesn't let Sherlock stop him. He rolls over, and then freezes. "Jesus Christ."

Sherlock looks like hell. In addition to the scrapes on his arms, there are bruises on his upper arms visible beneath the t-shirt. His left eye is blacked, and there is blood on the front of Sherlock's shirt. If the swelling in his nose is any indication, at least some of the blood is his. "John, it's not as bad as it looks, really."

John pulls himself out of the bed and stands, "Well that's good, because if it were, I'd be dragging your arse down to the A&E." He walks around the bed and pulls Sherlock to a sitting position, not missing the wince that it causes. The uniform shirt Sherlock was wearing is on the bedroom floor, dirty and torn, and there's no sign of the beret--other than that, he's dressed as he was when he left the flat the previous day. "Right," John says. "Off with the shirt. Let me see." When Sherlock shows no sign of obeying, John folds his arms and waits.

"I'm really _fine_ ," Sherlock complains, but pulls the dark cypress green t-shirt over his head. There are several bruises along Sherlock's side, consistent with punches, but no sign of swelling.

"You are not, you look like you got the shit kicked out of you. Does it hurt at all when you breathe?"

"No broken ribs," Sherlock says. "The bloody nose was the worst of it."

John tilts Sherlock's chin up and examines his face, turning it from one side to the other. "You're lucky it's not broken," he says. "It's probably too late for ice to do you any good, but come on, let's get you cleaned up." He pushes Sherlock into the bathroom and wets a flannel in the sink. "MI-5 did this to you?"

Sherlock winces when the cloth touches his face. "Not the entire Security Service, no. Just one agent. He had a considerable size advantage."

John washes away the dried blood, slowly and gently wiping it off Sherlock's skin. "Did you at least get Mycroft what he was after?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, and smiles.

"England safe for now then?"

"For now," Sherlock says. "But next time, I'll let you tangle with military intelligence."


	18. Doing Something Together

"What are the chances they identified you?" John asks. The worst of the blood is gone from Sherlock's face, and John is down to cleaning and disinfecting the scrapes on his arms. "I mean, they're MI-5, I imagine they have, I don't know, facial recognition software and access to the CCTV cameras."

Sherlock sniffs. "They don't if Mycroft doesn't want them to. Besides, if they'd ID'ed me, they would have got here before me and you'd be tied to a kitchen chair."

"Well, it's nice to know I was never in any danger," teases John.

Sherlock's expression flickers and softens for the blink of an eye, as if that possibility never crossed his mind. "John..." Before John has a chance to react, Sherlock swoops in and kisses him hard. There's no tentativeness, no hesitation this time. In a matter of seconds, Sherlock crowds John against the bathroom wall, and John hangs on, relenting beneath the onslaught, opening his mouth for Sherlock's tongue and draping his arms around Sherlock's neck. John curls the fingers of his uninjured hand into Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock tightens his arms around John's waist.

There's no mistaking the erection pressing against John's belly, not with the way Sherlock is writhing against him. This time, though--this time it doesn't make John want to run. His own cock is responding in kind and all John wants is for Sherlock to be closer. He hooks one leg around Sherlock's leg and pulls him in, and Sherlock responds by half-lifting John against the wall, holding him there with the weight of his body. Panting, Sherlock nips down John's jawline, leaving a hot, damp trail that quickly goes cool. He tongues and then bites at John's pulse point, a little too sharply.

"Ow, hey," John says, trying to catch his breath. "You need to at least buy me dinner before you can leave any marks."

Sherlock draws back, and his eyes are blazing and darker than John has ever seen them, so full of hunger that John's insides tremble. "Bed," Sherlock says. "Now."

John licks his bottom lip then bites at it before nodding. Sherlock releases him from the wall and John leads them back to Sherlock's room. His mind is racing from one scenario to the other. John wants... something. He's just still not sure if he wants everything. Yet.

Before they're even fully in the room, Sherlock is unfastening the uniform trousers, which have now definitely seen better days. John is more circumspect, pulling off his jumper and the shirt beneath it. His jeans he keeps as he lies down, and Sherlock doesn't object, even though he's down to just his pants.

John has seen Sherlock in various stages of undress before; they've lived together too long for anything else. He has not, however, ever seen Sherlock in his pants with a full erection. He feels the blood rushing to his cheeks, but he doesn't look away. For the first time, John lets himself look at Sherlock the way he might look at a lover: clothed, Sherlock gives the impression of being too skinny, but like this, he's all lean lines and wiry muscle. John's heart speeds up as he looks over the curves of Sherlock's arse, and the tented front of his grey cotton pants.

Sherlock is watching him, and when John meets his eyes, he smiles. "With, or without?" Sherlock asks, his thumbs in his waistband.

"Um, with," John says slowly. "For now." He reaches out his hand to Sherlock. "Come here." Sherlock settles against him the way they were on the sofa, straddling one of John's legs with his arms to either side of John's head. 

Sherlock props himself above John, looking him over with an intent look. He lifts his hand and trails his fingertips down John's chest, then back up to trace over the exit wound scar on his shoulder. No one has touched him there in anything but a clinical fashion before, and he shivers--not from the sensation, which is mildly unpleasant--but from the careful, almost reverent way Sherlock touches him. Then he settles against John, and they are lying skin-to-skin for the first time. John wraps his arms around Sherlock and holds him there.

When they kiss, it's a little less frenetic, slower and more exploratory. When Sherlock's hips press against John's thigh, he feels a moment of panic starting to rise. He is in another man's bed, kissing another man.

Except: It's Sherlock's bed he's in, and it's Sherlock he's kissing. The panic never fully surfaces before it starts to fade. John wraps his free leg around Sherlock and arches against him, moving to lick at Sherlock's ear lobe. "I'm not going anywhere this time," he murmurs, gratified to hear Sherlock's soft exhalation as he lowers his mouth to John's unmarked shoulder. 

The soft sensation of Sherlock's lips against his skin combines with the slightly sharper rasp of stubble to leave John gasping. Sherlock drags his open mouth over John's chest, then lifts, hovering over one of John's nipples, which tightens under Sherlock's breath. Sherlock licks the peak of it, and John nearly arches off the bed.

It's too much, and it's not enough, all at once. John's jeans feel too tight, too restrictive. It only gets worse when Sherlock shifts above him, moving so he's between John's thighs, pressing his erection against John's through layers and layers of cloth. Sherlock gasps and John whimpers, and as if that were a signal, they both move towards each other for another kiss, wet and open and heated. 

Sherlock drags his hand between them, inching it down John's chest. John's heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his temples. It's like he's a randy teenager all over again, and his first girlfriend is about to touch him for the first time--that overwhelming sense of anxiety and anticipation. He tries to focus on Sherlock's lips and tongue, but all he can think about is the slow tug of fingertips creeping towards his waistband.

When Sherlock finally does slide down to cup John's cock through his jeans, John bites back a cry. Sherlock stops immediately and says, "All right?"

"Yes," John says. " _Please._ " The word escapes him before he means to say it.

Sherlock's laugh is a low rumble against John's chest. "Since you asked so nicely..." He gives the button on John's flies a teasing tug, and John bites his lower lip. Sherlock leans down and kisses him, drawing John's lower lip between his teeth before letting go. His fingers still tease at John's waistline, making John squirm and arch up, trying to urge Sherlock's hand lower once more.

John feels the tug at his zip before he hears it, and makes an undignified whine. His cock is aching. Sherlock must be in nearly the same state. He glances down to see Sherlock straining against his pants, a wet spot forming where the head of his cock is. It knocks the breath out of him; it's a little too much. The idea of reaching down, of touching Sherlock... "Sherlock," he says. When Sherlock looks up at him, John smiles, a little hesitantly. "I... I think I want to watch you."

"Watch me...?"

John swallows. "Touch yourself. Show me--show me what you like."

Sherlock rolls off of him, and for a moment John feels bereft. But then Sherlock looks at him through hooded eyes and runs his hand down the length of his own body with a low, murmuring sigh.

"Oh god," John says, and turns on his side to watch. 

"John," Sherlock says, and the sound of his name in that arousal-roughened voice sends a jolt through John's body. "Should I tell you what I think about, lying here in this bed?"

"Yes," John's voice is very small, and he eases his hand to adjust his jeans, but winds up unbuttoning them.

"You." It's a single word, and a single word shouldn't have the power to make John forget how to breathe. Sherlock's wrapped his hand around his cock through his pants, and John can't tear his eyes away. "Always you. I want you so much," Sherlock says, then follows it with a low moan as he squeezes himself, stroking slowly.

John undoes his zip without looking, and pushes his jeans and pants down just enough to let his cock spring free.

"Yes," Sherlock rasps, and he slips his hand into his pants, pushing them out of the way. John looks away, focusing on Sherlock's face. When John takes himself in his hand, Sherlock rolls to his side and kisses John hard and fast before collapsing back. He keeps his eyes on John's, letting him see every flutter of his eyelashes, every tiny gasp, until John finally can't resist looking down to see what Sherlock is doing.

Sherlock is stroking himself fast and light now, the dark red tip of his cock vanishing and reappearing in his long, pale fingers. John feels arousal spike to a burning intensity in his mind before rocketing down to his cock. When he starts to stroke, he has to fight to keep his eyes open. A glance up tells him that Sherlock is focused on John's moving hand. As John watches, Sherlock licks his lips.

John takes a breath and says, "I've thought of you too," just to watch Sherlock's expression. 

Sherlock doesn't disappoint. His hand tightens on himself, his eyes widen and his lips part. "Tell me."

"I thought about--" John pauses, feeling awkward. Somehow, telling Sherlock that John made himself come while thinking of Sherlock as a woman seems like a bad idea. "I thought about hearing you say my name," he says. 

Sherlock murmurs, "Hearing it when?"

"When--" John clears his throat and closes his eyes, feeling the tension starting to rise with each stroke of his hand. "When I made you come."

"John, look at me." 

John opens his eyes.

"You wanted to watch," Sherlock says, a little smile curling his mouth. He bites his lip and drops his head back, his hand moving blurringly fast on his cock. John can see his chest heaving. "John. Oh god, John--" The last repetition of his name rises at the end into a soft cry as Sherlock's cock starts to twitch and spurt in his hand. John whimpers as he watches and thrusts his hips faster and faster, driving his cock into his fist. 

Sherlock drops his voice into his lowest register and growls, "Come for me, John."

John is lost at that. His entire body jerks and spasms, and he can't even form his cry into a word. He shakes and shakes and it feels like he'll never stop. When he finally lets go of his cock, his hands are trembling violently. Sherlock pulls him over and John lies down, nestled against Sherlock's shoulder. He feels Sherlock kiss the top of his head.

"You should sleep," Sherlock says.

"I should... clean up," John says, fiercely self-conscious of the mess they've both made.

"Stay," Sherlock says, "just... let go. I've got you."

John tries to relax despite the fact that they're both essentially naked, tries to focus on the warmth of Sherlock's skin against his. Sherlock pets his hair like he's gentling a skittish horse. The idea of Sherlock, of all people, being soothing is surprising enough, that it works is enough to make John smile. He settles in and closes his eyes.


	19. In Formal Wear

"I don't like it," Sherlock says, as John is putting the finishing touches on his bow tie. 

"I know," John says. "I figured it out the first five times you said you didn't like it."

"It's a mistake."

John sighs and turns around to face Sherlock, who's in his dressing gown and pajamas. "Sherlock, we agreed. Mycroft needs someone to go to the dinner tonight. And not only are you supremely noticeable because of that," he gestures at Sherlock's black eye, "but it's possible the very person Mycroft needs me to make contact with is behind the assault on you. So frankly, you're not the best choice."

"But you don't know what you're doing. It's very formal."

John turns back to the mirror over the mantle. "I was an officer in Her Majesty's Army. I did go through some protocol training."

Sherlock sniffs. "Not enough. There is absolutely no reason that Mycroft needs to send _you_. He's just doing this to spite me."

"Well, Sherlock, someone stole his ID a little while ago and broke into a top-secret government facility. I think he's probably entitled to a little payback, don't you?" John checks the line of his tux jacket and fiddles with it a bit. "And jealousy is a very bad look on you."

The doorbell rings.

Sherlock ignores it and says, "I am not jealous. I just don't understand why... _her_."

From downstairs they hear a cheerful, "Hello, Mrs. Hudson!"

"Oh my, don't you look _lovely_!" Mrs. Hudson trills. "Go on up, dear, I'm sure John's ready by now."

"Because," John says, lowering his voice as Mary's footsteps come up the stairs, "the invite Mycroft finagled included a plus-one, and because if there's any trouble, she's a good sort to have along."

Mary knocks at the door to the sitting room, then steps in. Even Sherlock makes a surprised sound. She is, in a word, stunning. Her dress is dark blue, with a short, full skirt made of material that John associates with Harry's short-lived stint in ballet class. The top of the dress is beaded, and low-cut enough to be enticing. Her arms are bare, but for the wrap she carries in the same dark blue. The colour makes her skin glow and her eyes sparkle. John recovers enough to say, "Wow." Then winces when Sherlock elbows him. 

"Hello, boys," Mary says with a grin. "Sherlock, how's your face feeling?"

"It's fine," Sherlock huffs. 

"And John? You're looking awfully well," she says.

"Likewise, Mary," John says. 

"We clean up nicely, don't we?" Mary says.

Sherlock snaps, "You're aware this isn't a lark, yes?"

"Yes sir," Mary says, with a crisp salute. "Tonight I am only going out with your boyfriend as my duty to Queen and country. It has absolutely nothing to do with him looking absolutely shaggable in a dinner jacket."

Sherlock starts to say something and John stops him by pulling him down by the dressing gown for a kiss. "Be nice," he murmurs. 

"You're taking a beautiful woman to dinner _and_ the two of you are going to try to do my job--likely poorly. Nice? Mmm, no." Sherlock is sulking, but he leans closer and says, "She's right about one thing. You do look shaggable."

"Enough," John says, laughing, and pushes Sherlock away.

"Are the two of you finished?" Mary says. 

"Not quite," Sherlock says. He pulls John into the kitchen and pushes back John's jacket sleeves to reveal his cufflinks. He takes one of them out.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping track of you," Sherlock says, replacing them with modest silver ones. He gestures to the one on the left, where John's shirt was tailored to accommodate his cast. "There's a GPS and a microphone in here. If you get into trouble, Mycroft will know. And more importantly, I'll know."

"It'll be fine," John says. "We go, we have dinner, we find the right person to talk to, and then I come home." He grins. "It's not like I'm trying to infiltrate MI-5."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and straightens John's jacket. John catches his hand, his face growing serious. "It really will be fine," John says. "I promise."

They go back to where Mary is waiting in the sitting room. She's standing at one of the bookcases, studying the titles.

"Ready when you are," John says. She turns and walks over and takes his arm. John grins over his shoulder at Sherlock as they're walking out the door. "Don't wait up."

Mycroft has sent a car, sleek and black and idling at the kerb when they come out. John opens the door for Mary and follows after her when she slides in. He is absolutely unsurprised to see Anthea sitting in the seat facing them, a file in her lap, Blackberry in her hand.

"Hello John, Mary." She doesn't look up. If Mary is surprised, she hides it well, only glancing at John once for confirmation that this is routine. Anthea hands over the dossier while still texting with her free hand. "Your target this evening is one of these two people. We aren't sure which of them will be attending the dinner."

John opens the folder and holds it so Mary can see it. There are photos of both people from numerous angles, one a blonde woman and one a dark-haired man. Most of the information other than the photos is blacked out. "We don't even get their names?" John says. "There's not much information here."

"Their names are irrelevant as they'll likely be using aliases. And you don't have a high enough security clearance for the rest," Anthea says. "Study what's there. We'll be arriving in about ten minutes."

John glances at Mary then Anthea. " _I_ don't have a high enough security clearance. She does?"

Both women simply look at him with politely blank smiles, then Mary looks down at the file. "John, we need to focus."

John looks at the top of Mary's head as she studies the file, seeing her as a new puzzle to solve.

When they arrive, John is certain he could recognise either of the two even at a distance. Anthea hands him an envelope. "Your invitation," she says. He hands her the folder, and she settles back in with her Blackberry.

"Good night," he says pointedly.

"Bye," Anthea says. John looks at Mary and shrugs, then climbs out of the car. As he reaches back to give Mary a hand, he looks around him. They're at an art gallery, one of the impossibly posh ones with art that makes absolutely no sense to anyone, but sells for thousands of pounds anyway. The building is glass and steel, and the beautiful people are streaming in. 

John looks at Mary and thinks they cut a pretty decent figure themselves. He offers his arm. "Well, Miss Moneypenny, shall we?"

Mary laughs. "You realise that Moneypenny kicked Bond's arse in the last movie."

John grins at her as they start up the steps. "Yes, I'm aware."

"In that case, lead on, Doctor Watson."

They reach the top of the steps, still smiling, and walk through the enormous glass doors.


	20. Dancing

The main hall is crowded and hot--John envies Mary her bare arms as he tries to resist tugging at his collar. 

Dinner was excellent, but John barely tasted any of it, nerves on a low simmer. If Mary's nervous, she's not showing a thing. She chatted amiably with their dinner companions while managing to keep an eye out for one of their targets.

Of whom there is no sign.

The guests are all herded into a larger reception hall like glittering overdressed sheep. The walls are lined with bland, offenseless modern art and the floor is cleared. The reason is obvious from the five piece band set up at the far end. John groans internally. Mycroft hadn't said anything about dancing at the reception. Mary looks delighted.

John is just about resigned to asking her to dance when she grabs his arm and pulls him close. She leans toward his ear and murmurs, "There's our target, under the painting of the blue dot."

John laughs quietly as if she's made a joke and glances over. Damn it. It's the man. It throws off his entire plan of attack. 

Mary takes his hand and tilts her head towards the dance floor. John leads her out and takes her into his arms and they start to move in a rather perfunctory waltz. 

"So what's our plan?" Mary asks.

"Well," John says, grimacing, "I suppose it would look a little unusual if I walked over there and asked him to dance?"

As they turn, Mary looks over John's shoulder and grins, "I don't know. He's pretty cute. Sherlock might not like it though."

"Ha," John says drily, trying to keep at least part of his mind on his feet so he doesn't trample her. 

"I could do it," Mary says. "I think I could take one for the team here."

"You'd have to get close enough to plant the tracker on him," John says. The music goes on around them, and they settle into the easy rhythm of the dance.

Mary looks up at him through her eyelashes and gives him a slow smile. John nearly misses a step. "I think I can manage that," she says.

"Bloody hell," he says. "Yes, I imagine you can." John's phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it.

"After this dance," Mary says. "I'll head over there and see if I can get him talking. Give me the tracker."

Once again, John nearly misses a step and narrowly avoids stepping on Mary's feet. "Anthea gave it to you."

"No she didn't."

"She did," John says. "While the two of you were smirking at each other about your security clearance."

"John, she didn't. Are you saying you don't have it?"

"Oh bloody _hell_ ," John says and storms off the dance floor. He hears Mary's footsteps behind him as he checks his phone.

  
From: Sherlock 21:54  
The level of incompetence here is breathtaking.  
-SH  


 

  
To: Sherlock 21:54  
Sod off. Are you eavesdropping?  


 

  
From: Sherlock 21:55  
Mycroft's messenger arrived shortly after you left. She was delayed.  
-SH  


 

  
From: Sherlock 21:55  
I believe I have something you need.  
-SH  


"Mycroft, you git," John says.

Mary comes up behind him and puts her hand on his shoulder and leans in. "Pull away from me and act angry."

"What?"

"Just do it. Follow me," Mary says. "Act angry."

"I'm not acting at this point," John says, pushing her hand off his shoulder as he turns around. "We're screwed."

She steps forward, touching his arm. "We've got nothing?"

John catches sight of their target over Mary's shoulder. He's looking their way, so John shakes Mary off again and leans in, scowling. "Sherlock's got it. The courier was late."

"Shit," Mary says, rubbing her forehead.

When John's mobile beeps again, he sighs in irritation. The knowledge that Sherlock is listening in as John's mission is going pear-shaped is absolutely--

"Mary." John fights to hide a smile, trying to keep his face suitably upset. "My cufflink. It's more noticeable than the tracker would be, but it's got GPS and audio."

Since her back is to the target, Mary flashes him a quick grin. "Thank god for jealous boyfriends. If I wasn't supposed to be fighting with you right now I could just kiss you."

"Can you plant it on him?"

"I can try."

John makes a show of taking out both of his cufflinks and shoves them into Mary's hands, like he's giving her back a gift. They're starting to attract attention, a little too much, so John turns and walks away, heading for the bar at the other end of the room.

He orders a Scotch and glances back at Mary, who has squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. There's no sign of the cufflinks. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she threads through the crowd, looking at the atrocious art on the walls. John focuses on his drink, until his mobile buzzes.

  
From: Sherlock 22:18  
What's happened? I don't hear you.  
-SH  


 

  
To: Sherlock 22:19  
Improvising.  


 

  
From: Sherlock 22:20  
God help us all.  
-SH  


John turns around and leans against the bar. Mary has made contact with the target. He may not have Sherlock's observational skills, but the body language looks promising.

  
From: Sherlock 22:24  
You cheated on her with your co-worker? John, you devil.  
-SH  


John tries not to think too hard about where she's hidden the cufflinks. Sherlock's next text doesn't help matters any.

  
From: Sherlock 22:24  
Picking up her heartbeat. Heart rate elevates when he speaks. Interesting.  
-SH  


The music changes to a foxtrot, and Mary and the target head out to the dance floor. John feels a slight pang. Their target is at least thirty centimetres taller than Mary, and even with John's limited experience of men, seems unrealistically good-looking. 'Take one for the team', indeed. 

They even dance well together. The bastard.

  
From: Sherlock 22:31  
Jealousy is a very bad look on you.  
-SH  


 

  
To: Sherlock 22:31  
I am not jealous. Have you already forgotten yesterday?  


 

  
From: Sherlock 22:31  
I remember yesterday vividly. But you're still jealous.  
-SH  


 

  
To: Sherlock 22:32  
He's tall.  


 

  
From: Sherlock 22:32  
I've pulled up CCTV on you. Your target is the agent who followed me.  
-SH  


And by 'followed me' what Sherlock really means is 'assaulted me and beat me bloody'. 

And now he's dancing with Mary. John orders a second drink and tries to keep his hands from clenching. He wants some way to warn her, but there isn't one. He realises belatedly that they have no signals, no plan for what happens once she makes the drop. As he watches the pair dance, the man leans down and whispers in her ear, and Mary giggles.

John waits for Sherlock to relay what he's hearing. It feels like hours.

  
From: Sherlock 23:01  
She's leaving with him. Coat check. He'll wait for her outside.  
-SH  


John finishes his drink and walks out of the reception hall with a look of disgust on his face, his heart racing. What the hell is Mary playing at?

He times it right, and is standing outside the coat check when she walks up, looking pleased with herself. John catches her by the arm and pulls her to the side. He finds that he's not feigning any anger at this point. "What the hell are you doing?"

"The job," Mary says, shaking him off. "Look, I can't just shove a cufflink in his pocket on the dancefloor. He'd notice."

"So what, the idea is to get him to take his trousers off?" John shakes his head. "Absolutely not. We'll find another way."

"John." Mary looks at him hard. "I've got his attention. He thinks he's about to get off with a woman who just dumped her cheating boyfriend. He _is not_ thinking about his job. You have a better idea?"

John's shoulders slump. 

"I didn't think so," Mary said.

"He's dangerous," John says.

Mary glances over John's shoulder, then smiles, a quick flash that's there and gone. "So am I. Moneypenny, remember? I have to go, he's going to think I changed my mind."

"Mary. Sherlock can hear everything, and has CCTV access. But, if you do get into trouble, say something about your sister, and we'll get you out."

"I'll be fine," Mary says and steps around him to get her things. She glances back with a grin. "Don't wait up."

John heaves a disgruntled sigh as she walks away. This evening has not gone according to plan. He debates his next move. Should he follow?

He gets his answer.

  
From: Sherlock 23:12  
Come home. Nothing more to do there.  
-SH  


John hates it, but Sherlock is right. All they can do is wait and see if Mary succeeds. He walks outside and hails a cab for home.


	21. Cooking/Baking

Sherlock is sitting at John's laptop when John gets home, typing furiously with one hand while he grabs his mobile with the other. He stops typing long enough to send a text, then looks up. "John." He's dressed in jeans and a shirt rather than the dressing gown he was in when John left.

"Where are they?" John pulls off his dinner jacket and tie and tosses them over the back of a chair as he walks across the room. His shirt sleeves are floppy without the cufflinks, so he rolls them up before leaning over Sherlock's shoulder.

Mary's laugh is audible from the computer speakers, mingled with the man's deeper laugh. "In a cab right now," Sherlock says. "They're headed to the Dorchester."

John sniffs. "Well, at least he's got good taste."

Sherlock tilts his head back and looks up at John. "This really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"I'm worried, Sherlock." John leans down and kisses Sherlock's forehead. "He doesn't sound like a very nice man."

"It sounds as if Mary has the situation well in hand," Sherlock says, and John gets a glimpse of a smirk. On cue, there's the unmistakable sound of a kiss coming through the computer speakers.

"Christ," John says. 

"Your Miss Morstan is either enjoying herself or she's a tremendous actress."

"So what do we do?" John says, starting to pace. "Are we just going to sit here and do nothing?"

"Essentially," Sherlock says. "I'm going to keep monitoring, but if the last half an hour is any indication, it's just going to be more of the same."

"Damn it. You should have let me tail them."

Sherlock stands and snags the headphones from the skull above the desk and plugs one end into John's computer. 

"What are you doing?" asks John.

"Trying to listen over you complaining," Sherlock says. "If you want to do something useful, you could cook something. I'm hungry."

"Wait." John walks over and touches Sherlock's forehead. "You're... hungry. But you're on a case."

"John." Sherlock just looks up at him. "Please?"

Sherlock is asking for food and Sherlock is saying please. John is suspicious. "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "If I'd wanted you to get out I would have told you."

"Fine." John isn't sure what they have in that isn't contaminated by some experiment or another, but at least it's something to do. With a glance at his clothes, he uses a towel as a makeshift apron before he roots around the cupboards trying to come up with something to cook. 

"They've reached the Dorchester," Sherlock calls from the other room. "He's going by the name Michael, but that's an alias, almost certainly."

John slams the cupboard shut and stands there with his head down. This is almost as bad as the day Sherlock was missing--almost. At least they know where Mary is, and can hear her. Well, Sherlock can hear her.

Checking the refrigerator reveals a few bits of veg that are in need of use, so John decides to throw the whole mess into a pot of rice with some cheese and call it risotto. 

Sherlock stays disturbingly quiet while John is cooking, and John lets the familiar if dull routine of chopping and stirring soothe him for a little bit. 

"They're in the room," Sherlock says. 

"Is she all right?" John asks, leaning back towards the doorway.

Sherlock is too long in answering. "Yes. Er, that is. She _sounds_ very--"

"Okay, thanks," John says and jabs a spoon viciously into the rice. It's not precisely jealousy he feels. There isn't a word for it. If this were someone Mary was actually dating, would he feel so out of sorts? But it's more than that. It should be him out there. This wasn't Mary's problem to solve. It was Sherlock's, and by extension, John's. 

The rice is as cooked as it's going to get. John dishes some out onto a plate for Sherlock and looks at it dubiously. It's probably not the most appealing thing he's ever cooked, but it's hot and it's filling, and given that Sherlock is eating at all right now, that's probably enough.

He carries the plate in to Sherlock who's sitting with an expression of intent concentration on his face. "Thank you," Sherlock says absently. He picks up the fork without looking, eating mechanically without ever missing a step. He's typing notes between bites.

_Speech patterns--Eton_   
_Age--34?_   
_Married once, no children_

"How are you getting all that from what you're hearing?" John asks. "Especially if he has a cover story."

Sherlock shakes his head, raising his hand to silence John. He frowns. "Mycroft's not going to get much out of him. I don't think he's our man." He leans back against the chair and slumps. "She's getting ready to leave. Well this was a spectacular waste of--" He sits up.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock yanks the headphones out of the jack on the computer, and voices fill the room.

"Oh for goodness sake, I wasn't trying to steal your wallet." Mary's voice. "I was--" she pauses, and then sounds sheepish, "I was trying to leave you my number."

"Really," the man says. The voice is hard. "On a microchip."

Mary laughs, "I don't know what you're talking about."

John looks at Sherlock and raises his eyebrows. He pulls off the towel he was wearing as an apron. "I'm going." 

Sherlock raises his hand again. "Wait."

"Who are you working for? The Russians? The Saudis?" John recognises that tone: it's the tone of a man used to asking questions and having them answered.

"Well then," Sherlock says. "This may be the right man after all."

"I--I don't know what you're talking about," Mary says. She sounds increasingly uncertain, but it's so out of character for the Mary John knows, he's almost positive it's an act.

There's a rustling sound, then the sound of something (leather?) slapping against tile. "This," the man says.

"What is that?" Mary asks. 

"Who's listening at the other end?" 

"Look, I don't know what your problem is," Mary says. "I'm just going to--"

A hand slams against something hard--a wall? A door? " _Tell me_."

John starts towards the door, but Sherlock grabs his arm.

The man grunts in what might be pain. "Let go of me," Mary says. "You're being--" The sound cuts out with a burst of static.

"Shit," says John, shaking off Sherlock, then he's halfway to the door. "Call Mycroft." He stops and goes back to the drawer where the Browning is locked. He grabs it and is halfway down the stairs before he realises Sherlock is right behind him, dialling his mobile.

"Mycroft," Sherlock says. "The Dorchester. The plan failed, but I think we've found your leak."


	22. In Battle, Side by Side

The Dorchester is as calm and stately as ever when the cab pulls up in front. John isn't sure why he's surprised--the secret service isn't going to stay secret very long if it goes around storming London landmarks, no matter what the films say. Mycroft texted them an alias and a room number (Michael Davies, room 708) and to say that backup was on the way.

Sherlock makes the driver take them around the block, and they exit near the Dorchester's kitchens. Before they climb out of the cab, Sherlock pulls on a baseball cap, tugging the bill down to shade his eyes. The alleyway leading to the kitchen is almost empty: one of the kitchen porters is emptying a rubbish cart into the skip. He's wearing ear buds and humming along tunelessly. Sherlock shakes his head-- he's no one they need to worry about. It's simple to slip past him and into the kitchen.

John's heart beats in his chest as they find their way to the service elevator. There was no time for cover stories or disguises--if they get caught, Mary is on her own until Mycroft's team arrives.

Waiting at the service elevator is a waiter pushing a cart. Sherlock tugs John around the corner and murmurs, "That's no waiter. The shoes are wrong."

The elevator dings. Sherlock jerks his head and they dart around the corner and into the elevator with the man. He opens his mouth to shout but John hits him in the head with the butt of the Browning and the man slumps to the ground.

"Check the cart," Sherlock says, leaning over the man and digging through his jacket pockets.

John is almost disappointed to find that the requisite silver-domed platter is covering, not a concealed weapon, but a plate of steak and chips.

Sherlock, though, comes up with a tiny device that could only be a transmitter. Sherlock drops it to the ground and crushes it with his foot. "There's our element of surprise gone." He presses the 6.

John grins at him. Neither of them says anything, but John can feel the energy vibrating between them, crackling and ready to be unleashed on anyone who gets in their way.

The elevator dings on 6 and the door slides open. John slips out first, staying close to the wall as he checks the hallway. Sherlock steps over the fallen agent and joins him. John tucks the Browning at the small of his back before they start moving side by side down the hallway. The fire door to the stairway is in front of them. John looks at Sherlock, who nods, and John swings the door open. The stairway is empty, but John can hear footsteps down below, quick and business-like. Sherlock doesn't hesitate, but starts up to the seventh floor.

At the door to the seventh floor, there's another pause between them, a breath before charging in. The Browning is out again, and John's grateful that he shoots right-handed; steadying his grip with the cast on is difficult enough. He's ready for anything behind the door: a swarm of angry MI-5 agents, a lonely assassin, anything.

Except for the one thing that's actually there: nothing. The two of them exchange concerned looks, then move on.

The entire hallway is quiet, just as one would expect from a five star hotel. They reach room 708 and John leans his ear against the door.

Nothing.

John looks at Sherlock, who tilts his head toward the door. John nods, and backs up across the hall, eying the door to judge the stress points. This is going to hurt. John takes a breath and throws his right shoulder into the door. One of the locks pops, but the door holds. John curses and rears back for a second charge.

The door gives way on the second hit and John charges in, gun pointing down and to the side. Sherlock is right behind him, which is stupid and how many times has John told him to let him clear the room first because--

Mary is standing to one side of the room with a Glock pointed at the door.

_Oh._

She's got a scrape on one cheek and her feet are bare, but otherwise no sign of any injuries. Her expression softens on seeing them, but it hardens again as she swings the gun back to what John assumes was its original target: the man from the dinner.

He's bound to a chair and gagged with what must be his own bow tie. He doesn't look quite as bad as Sherlock did the day he infiltrated MI-5, but he's clearly had a rough evening. There's a bruise on his cheekbone and drying blood around his nose. If looks could kill, Mary would be in ribbons on the floor of the hotel room. John shifts his stance to cover him.

"Took you long enough," Mary says.

John looks around the room. The bed is rumpled, but there's no other sign of what happened. The first question to pop out of his mouth is, "What did you tie him up with?"

She wiggles her bare toes without looking over at him. "My stockings. He's probably managed to slip them by now, so if one of you gentlemen would care to check for me..."

Sherlock produces a pair of handcuffs and re-secures their prisoner while John spares an admiring glance at Mary. "CMT, my arse," he says.

"I was a CMT," Mary protests. "Bet I can suture faster than you can."

"Either way, the government is losing out, with you staying in a forensics lab," John says.

Sherlock steps away from the man in the chair then checks his phone. "Ah, our friends from the stairwell are here. They're ours."

A moment later the room is swarming with agents who take over their prisoner and cart him away. John steps over and touches Mary's elbow. "You're all right though?"

Mary hands him the Glock. "Fine. I knew I was taking a chance, stripping out the chip from the cufflink and trying to plant it in his wallet. Didn't work out."

John indicates the Glock. "His?"

Mary glances up and grins. "Well, I didn't have it hidden in my dress, did I?"

"You've done this sort of thing before," Sherlock says, joining them. When Mary shakes her head, he says, "That wasn't a question. I heard the entire encounter. You knew exactly what you were doing." To John he says, "We should go downstairs. I imagine my brother has arrived by now." He turns to go, then stops and glances back at Mary. "Well done."

John is gobsmacked, and watches Sherlock walk out the door. Mary smacks him in the arm. "Come on, let's go."

"I think he likes you," John says.

"He likes me because he's finally figured out I'm not a threat," Mary says. "God you two are a couple of idiots. Come on."

Downstairs is the expected black car. Sherlock is already inside it when John and Mary follow.

"...staggering ineptitude on your part," Sherlock says. Mycroft is wearing his usual sour-lemon expression.

"Ah, John. Miss Morstan." John doesn't think he's imagining Mycroft's relief at their arrival. "Nicely done, both of you." John can practically hear Sherlock's sulk. "We'll debrief Mr. 'Davies', but I think he'll be able to tell us what we need to know." The car starts moving at no obvious signal from Mycroft. "I apologise for the confusion earlier."

John is suddenly exhausted, and leans his head back against the leather cushions.

"Where are we going?" asks Mary.

"I've taken the liberty of giving the driver your address, unless there's somewhere else you wish to go?" Mycroft has lost none of his poise. John suspects that if Mycroft accidentally triggered World War Three, he'd never so much as blink.

"Uh, no. Home is fine." Mary scoots back on her seat and settles in.

When the car rolls to a stop, Mycroft takes a card from his breast pocket. "And Miss Morstan, come by my office on Monday morning at 8AM. I believe we have some business to discuss. DI Lestrade agrees with me that your talents may be better served in another branch of law enforcement."

"I--okay." Mary blinks, but takes the card before climbing out of the car. "If you have an offer, I'm willing to listen to it."

Mycroft looks disgruntled, as if it hadn't occurred to him that she might refuse. John bites back a grin. What he wouldn't give to eavesdrop on that particular meeting. Maybe Sherlock can set something up. "Good night, Mary," he says.

She leans back in and smiles. "Good night, boys. Thanks for letting me tag along." Then she shuts the door. All three of them watch her until she's out of sight inside her building.

"She seems to be a remarkable woman," Mycroft says.

"Well, she's not entirely useless," Sherlock concedes.

"So, this Mr. Davies," John says, "he was the one who--" He indicates Sherlock's face.

"I told you, yes," Sherlock says.

"And yet, Mary managed--"

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock says, throwing himself against the seat cushions and looking out the window.

John grins and settles back as the car starts moving again. "So no, not entirely useless."


	23. Arguing

Once they're inside the flat, John can't hold himself back anymore. He takes a deep breath. "So. Can you tell me what you thought you were doing back there?"

Sherlock hangs up his coat and scarf and looks back at John. "Where?"

"The hotel room. What the hell was that?"

When Sherlock walks into the sitting room, John follows. "I don't know what you're talking about, John."

"I'm talking about charging into an unknown situation, _unarmed_ , instead of waiting to let me make sure it was safe, you git." 

"I was behind you," Sherlock says, settling down at the desk behind his computer.

John folds his arms and stands by Sherlock, taking what height advantage he can. "Yes, because I provide excellent cover for about half of you. How many times have we talked about this? Christ, you have the survival instincts of a... a lemming."

"Lemmings don't actually commit mass suicide, John, that's a myth." Sherlock opens a file and starts typing at a rapid-fire pace.

"Of a dodo, then!" John pinches the bridge of his nose. "The point is, stop trying to get yourself killed on my watch."

Sherlock doesn't look up, but keeps typing. "I managed to keep myself alive for thirty-one years before you came along, thank you."

"Yes," John says. "Splendidly, from what I hear from Lestrade. Smooth sailing."

"And at any rate, I would hardly call you an expert in not getting shot."

John swallows his first response, then says quietly, "As many times as I've been shot at, getting hit once is a pretty fucking good record, Sherlock." He leans on Sherlock's side of the desk, trying to will Sherlock to look up at him. "I want to keep you safe."

"I don't need your protection," Sherlock says, his hands stilling on the keyboard. 

"Sherlock, when you do something stupid, you increase the risk for me too." John indicates the arm with the cast. "Remember? If I'm dividing my attention between you _and_ what we're facing, sooner or later one of us is going to get killed."

"You're saying you need a soldier." 

"No, I'm not--"

"Yes you are. You don't need a civilian with you. You need someone like Mary." Sherlock stands and walks into the kitchen.

John watches, not following at first. "What? _Mary_? What does she have to do with this?" 

"You didn't try to protect her."

When John gets to the kitchen, Sherlock is rooting around on the kitchen table, looking for god knows what. "Sherlock, when we got there, she had a _gun_ , and the situation was under control. And did you forget the part where I was pacing a hole in the carpet worrying about her?"

"You weren't worried. You were jealous." Sherlock doesn't find what he's looking for, and shoves at the mess on the table.

"I wasn't--" John starts, then Sherlock looks up at him with his most piercing look. "Okay, maybe I was, a little," John revises. 

"Because you want her for yourself. It's obvious in the way you look at her."

"Is _that_ what this is about?" John reaches out to take Sherlock by the arm, but Sherlock pulls away. "It sounds like I wasn't the only one who was jealous."

Sherlock is quiet and cold, then says, "You took her with you instead of me." 

"I would rather have taken you," John says, and as he says it, he knows it's the truth. Playing at being spies with Mary had been exciting, but it wasn't the same as working with Sherlock on a case.

"I don't look nearly as good in a dress," Sherlock says, his lips twisting in a sardonic smile. 

"You might," John says, venturing a smile.

"John, stop."

John throws his hands up. "Okay, I like women. They're attractive. That's not just going to go away because--"

"Because?" Sherlock's voice is low and dangerous.

"Because I'm with you! Or--whatever this is."

"Are you? You don't sound certain." He sweeps past John and goes back to his desk and sits down.

"I am," John says, trying to sound certain. 

"You're playing," Sherlock says. "Being with a man is just something you're trying out. If I were a woman--"

"Stop."

Sherlock doesn't stop. "If I were a woman, we'd be shagging all over the flat."

John doesn't have an answer.

"I know you've thought about it," Sherlock says.

"I--" John can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and knows that any lie he tries to make will be entirely obvious. _I do want you,_ he starts to say, then discards. _This isn't a game_. No, not that either. He needs to think, to find a way to explain. "I'm going out," he finally says, and starts for the door. 

"Say hello to Mary for me," Sherlock says.

John tries not to slam the door as he leaves.


	24. Making Up Afterwards

It's starting to sleet as John steps outside, so he turns up the collar of his jacket--his new jacket, the one Sherlock had insisted on buying for him. 

_If I were a woman, we'd be shagging all over the flat._

The worst part about it is that he's right. The way he feels for Sherlock, the way the memory of that afternoon in his bed still makes him shiver--if Sherlock were a woman, John would have stopped hesitating long before now. Possibly after the first kiss.

John walks down Baker Street with the sleet stinging his cheeks. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since he last slept, and he can feel it in his muscles. Sooner or later the adrenaline is going to give out. Couldn't Sherlock have waited until they'd both slept before dragging all of this up? For a brief moment, he considers calling Mary, going so far as to pull out his mobile. It would serve Sherlock right if John _did_ go to her, really. That bastard.

He looks at the screen, the re-pockets the phone with a growl. Mary's not who he wants to talk to. John shoves his hands deep in his jacket pockets and walks on, his head lowered against the weather. 

What if Sherlock is right? John's always understood sexual orientation to be something immutable, set in stone at birth. Harry's coming-out had involved long, serious conversations on the subject, sitting around the kitchen table with their mum while Harry tried to convince them that she was serious. 

John had been seventeen, and had been a self-absorbed twat. He'd recently read an article in the Sunday Times about girls who experimented with girls in college, so felt like an expert on the subject--especially since he'd wanked twice at the notion of Katie and Dawn from school getting naked together. Christ, the look on her face when he'd asked her if she was sure it wasn't just a phase. She didn't hit him, amazingly, but said that she'd always known.

John had always known he was straight--hadn't he? Was it just that he'd never had a reason to question it before?

As soon as he asks the question, John remembers Robert, from his sixth form chemistry class--the same year that Harry had come out, ironically. Robert was close to John's height, and had a sweet smile that the girls gossiped over. John felt like an idiot every time he talked to him, could barely look him in the eye. At the time he didn't understand. In retrospect, it's obvious that he'd had a crush.

Nice to know that twenty years later he still doesn't know how to cope with it.

The cold and wet have soaked through John's shoes and trousers--both of which were meant more for a turn around a dance floor than a slog through London sleet. He looks up to see how far he's come, then turns back for home.

By the time he reaches the flat, his feet are nearly numb with cold and fatigue. The flat is dim, but John can see Sherlock curled up on the sofa in his dressing gown. It's hard to tell if he's sleeping or sulking at this distance. John's torn. Logically he should change into dry clothes, but he's afraid that Sherlock--if he's awake--will take John going upstairs as a rejection. He settles for kicking off his wet shoes and peeling off the flimsy dress socks. Even the foyer's bare floor feels warm in comparison.

John approaches the sofa on careful feet. "Sherlock?" he says quietly. "Are you awake?"

"You're home early," Sherlock says, sounding completely awake. "Mary wouldn't let you in?"

John sighs and nudges Sherlock's feet. "Budge over." When Sherlock doesn't, John sits on the coffee table facing the couch. "I wasn't going over there. I just needed to cool off."

Sherlock hrmphs and pulls his dressing gown tighter, an indication of a deeper sulk on the way. 

"I was thinking," John says, pausing to give Sherlock time to scoff. That he doesn't is a bad sign. "When did you know? How old were you?"

"When did I know what?"

"Well, that you were--gay, or bi, or whatever you are--that you liked men?"

Sherlock is quiet long enough that John thinks he's not going to reply. "Fifteen," Sherlock says. 

"Never had any doubts?" John asks, curling his toes into the rug for warmth. "No questions?"

"No." Something in the way Sherlock says it hurts John's chest; there's something buried under that word, something deep and painful.

"Harry came out to my mum and me when I was seventeen," John says. "It... didn't go well. I mean, Mum didn't disown her or anything, but... it was tense."

John sees Sherlock nod. Even though he's not turning over, John knows he's listening.

"I remember..." John takes a deep breath. "I remember thinking that I was lucky not to be like her."

"You're worried about potential persecution," Sherlock says. "I understand."

"No, you don't, Sherlock. Shut up and listen," John says. He rests his elbows on his knees and scrubs at his damp scalp. "I _was_ like her though. I just... ignored it."

Sherlock says, "So now you're saying you've been gay all along." His tone is harsh, but John recognizes defensiveness in it. 

"I'm not saying that. Sherlock, can you at least look at me, please?"

The sigh Sherlock heaves suggests that John has asked for a Herculean effort, but he turns over. When John sees his eyes glinting in the dim light, he says, "I don't want to be with Mary, or Sarah. I want to be with you. _You_ , you great clot. Although god knows why." He reaches out to touch Sherlock's cheek, ready for him to pull away. When he doesn't, John says, "It's just... new. This is twenty years of conditioning I'm undoing here, Sherlock." He smiles a little bit. "I wouldn't do that for just anyone."

Sherlock sits up, tugging at his dressing gown. He stares at John thoughtfully, which from experience, makes John nervous. "Conditioning is tricky," Sherlock says. "Replacing one learned behavior with another takes a lot of time, and requires a predictable reward structure for it to work."

"You're not turning this into an experiment."

When Sherlock jumps to his feet, John knows he's in trouble. "Operant conditioning, John. It's simple. It's not an experiment, it's proven science!"

"Oh god." John swings around from the coffee table to sit on the vacated sofa. "Are you at least going to apologise for being an arse?"

"Positive reinforcement," Sherlock says. "Come here and kiss me and I'll apologise as a reward."

"You're absolutely cracked," John says, but he stands up anyway.

"Come here, my little rat. Press the lever and you'll get a pellet." Sherlock has that slightly manic gleam in his eyes that he gets when he's come up with a particularly horrifying idea.

"Get a--ugh, Sherlock, no. Can we just... forget that I ever used the word 'conditioning', please?" John says, pulling Sherlock down by the lapels and kissing him.

"No," Sherlock says, wrapping his arms around John's waist and pulling him in close. He leans his forehead against John's and says, quieter, "I am sorry for what I said."

"Me too," John says.

"Good, that's settled," Sherlock says, pulling away and grabbing John by his hand. "Come with me, I know exactly what the next reward should be."

John follows, half laughing and half terrified.


	25. Gazing Into Each Other's Eyes

Sherlock pulls John over to his desk chair and starts unfastening John's trousers. "Hey," John says.

"They're wet. You were going to take them off anyway," Sherlock says. When the trousers puddle around John's feet, John kicks them away with a modicum of good grace, curious to see what Sherlock has planned. Parts of him are more curious than others: his cock is already twitching in his pants.

"Sit down," Sherlock says, pushing him down into the chair and straddling his lap. Beneath his dressing gown Sherlock is only wearing a pair of thin pyjamas and no shirt. John marvels that he's not freezing. He doesn't marvel for long, as Sherlock leans down and kisses him. 

They're slow and careful kisses to start with, barely more than teasing brushes of Sherlock's lips against John's. John reaches up to bring Sherlock in for a more intense kiss, but Sherlock catches his hands and pushes them back down to the sides and holds them there. He keeps teasing John with feather-light kisses, occasional swipes of his tongue, not enough to be truly satisfying.

"Kiss me already," John mutters, chasing Sherlock's mouth with his own.

"You have to push the button to get a reward," Sherlock says.

"I'm _trying_ ," John says, between taunting kisses from Sherlock. "You won't hold still."

Sherlock shakes his head, and John tries to think what it is Sherlock wants him to do. Something he's never really done before, maybe. This time when he reaches out, Sherlock doesn't stop him. John curls his fingers around Sherlock's hips, reaching for his arse. He pulls Sherlock in tight against him, the start of his erection sliding along the start of Sherlock's. There's not much between them, two thin layers of cotton. For a moment John forgets to breathe.

It was the right answer though. Sherlock tilts John's head back and kisses him hard, sliding his tongue against John's, lapping at his mouth. Now that he's got his reward, John reaches up with his good hand and slides his fingers into Sherlock's hair, still holding tight to his arse with the other. Both of them are moving in the chair, shifting and arching against each other.

When Sherlock starts unbuttoning John's shirt, John lowers his arms and lets Sherlock take it off. However, when he reaches up to hold Sherlock again, Sherlock stops him, and pulls John's vest up and over his head as well, then brings it back over John's eyes, tying it at the back of John's head.

"I'm pretty sure there's nothing about blindfolding the test subject anywhere in Skinner's work," John says.

"You just haven't read the right journals," Sherlock says, leaning down to lick John's earlobe. John shivers and pulls Sherlock back against him. They're both hard now, and the feeling of Sherlock's cock against his is unexpected, and unexpectedly arousing. Sherlock shrugs off his dressing gown and wraps his arms around John's neck, and there's that sensation again, of a warm body covered in cooler skin, pressed against him. The absence of breasts is notable, but less odd than before. 

"John." Sherlock's voice is low and at his ear again. "I can feel you, I can feel how hard you are." He rocks his hips against John's in a slow, undulating movement that almost is exactly what John wants, but maddeningly, is not quite. Sherlock pulls away. John reaches to bring him back, but Sherlock slides back on his lap and focuses his attention on John's neck and chest, licking and biting at John's most sensitive places: his pulse point, his clavicle, his sternocleidomastoid. 

John can't stop shivering now, vaguely aware of the small noises he's making under Sherlock's mouth. He can't _think_. With his vision blocked, he's acutely aware of everything else. Sherlock's mouth and hands seem to be everywhere at once. The chair is hard and biting at the backs of his thighs, tugging at his skin each time he tries to arch his hips against Sherlock's--but Sherlock is just out of reach, too far back on John's lap. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckles and nuzzles at John's ear. "Please what?"

"I need--" He's at a loss to say what. 

"Yes? What do you need?" Sherlock's voice is little more than hot breath against his ear.

John takes a breath. "I need to touch you."

Sherlock leaves his lap, and John almost pulls off the impromptu blindfold to follow him. There's a whisper of cloth, and then Sherlock is back in his lap, his pyjama pants gone.

Sherlock chuckles, "Better?"

The skin of Sherlock's thighs and arse burns against John's skin, making his mouth go dry. "If you say one word about any levers, I'm going to shove you off my lap."

He lifts his hand. Sherlock takes it and kisses his palm before guiding it down to his cock. John's breath catches at the feel of hot, hard flesh, at once utterly familiar and alien.

"I want to see," he says. Sherlock pulls away the vest and John blinks in the light. He looks down at his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's cock--not moving yet, just touching. It's so much darker than the rest of Sherlock, dark red against the pale skin of his belly. He licks his lips with a parched tongue, and tentatively moves his hand in a slow up and down movement.

Sherlock murmurs, "God, yes."

John watches himself stroking another man's cock and falters, just for a second.

"John, look up here at me."

He does, and sees how dark and wide Sherlock's eyes are. He wonders if his own are the same. John leans forward and kisses Sherlock slowly, then starts stroking and squeezing his cock again. It's easier not to look, for now, and Sherlock's face is practically an instruction manual, telling John exactly how fast to move, how tight to squeeze. 

Sherlock doesn't close his eyes, although his lashes flutter when John finds a particularly good rhythm. Instead they watch one another, John feeding off the look of pleasure on Sherlock's face. When Sherlock parts his lips--now swollen a little with kissing--and groans, John feels it up and down his spine.

Even when John steals another kiss, their eyes stay open, as if they might miss some crucial moment if they look away. Sherlock is wet in his hand now, and John's cock is aching. "Christ," he murmurs, "you feel so good."

Sherlock smiles a slow, almost drowsy sort of smile and John thinks whatever else he does in this life, that's a smile he wants to see often. "Faster," Sherlock says. "I'm close."

John complies, and Sherlock is riding his lap now, hips arching against his hand. His whole body is tense against John's, and he finally breaks their gaze, his head falling back with a soft cry. "Yes, yes please." 

John reaches awkwardly with his cast and brings Sherlock's eyes back to his. "Let me see you."

A moment later the tension reaches its peak, and Sherlock goes rigid against John before his cock starts jumping and spurting in John's hand. John's first instinct is to let go, but he fights it, and keeps stroking Sherlock through his entire orgasm until Sherlock reaches down to stop him. John pulls Sherlock against him and buries his face against Sherlock's shoulder, unable to find words.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John's neck and they are quiet for a few moments. John can feel Sherlock's breathing steady out. Suddenly the past twenty-four hours land on him all at once. He closes his eyes and feels the last of his energy drain away along with his erection.

"All right?" Sherlock says, pulling away and studying John's face.

"Fine," John says. "Knackered." Sherlock looks a little worried; John pulls him back for a kiss. "Tomorrow?" Sentences are too much work. There's a mess against his belly and chest that he should cope with, and Sherlock must be freezing.

Sherlock slides off his lap with a smile and pulls him up by his hand. "Come to bed, John." John doesn't resist, but lets Sherlock pull him into his room. He barely remembers his head hitting the pillow.


	26. Getting Married

Consciousness, when it finally comes back to John, comes in layers. The strangeness of the sheets against his skin filters in first, the wrong pillow beneath his head. There's dim light in the room. Blocked by heavy curtains, it's impossible to tell what time of day it is. John can only judge the passage of time by how full his bladder is, and how stiff his muscles are from being still so long.

He's in Sherlock's bed. The thought is enough to bring him fully awake. The other side of the bed is disappointingly empty. John reaches across to touch the pillow. It's cool. He stretches luxuriously against Sherlock's high thread count sheets, curling partly on his side with a lazy groan. At a guess, he'd say he'd been asleep at least ten or eleven hours. It's the same warm lethargy he feels on mornings (or afternoons) after they've solved a case, except before, case-solving had never ended with someone having an orgasm.

Except it might now, mightn't it?

John grins and rolls back onto his back. His bladder is going to make him get up in just a moment, but not yet.

When he can't put it off anymore, John rolls out of bed with a grunt and staggers to the loo. Every muscle and joint is protesting the previous day's activities.

As he's washing his hands, his cock joins the protest, stirring with the memory of Sherlock coming in his hand. He finishes washing himself up and brushes his teeth. He decides to toss his pants in the hamper. It's nothing Sherlock hasn't seen before, at this point, and the pants are none too fresh. He listens to make certain the flat is empty before walking into the kitchen. Sherlock is standing by the kettle in his dressing gown. As soon as he spots John he frowns. "No, go get back in bed. You're not supposed to be awake yet."

John laughs. "What are you doing?"

"Never mind. Go back to bed." He pauses and looks at John. "Oh good. You're naked. I'll be right in." Sherlock is maneuvering himself in front of the counter like a child trying to hide the cookies behind him.

John cranes his neck, but doesn't really try that hard to see whatever Sherlock's hiding. "All right. Have it your way." Whatever Sherlock's up to, John hopes that maybe it involves breakfast, or at least tea. He snags his mobile on the way. It's after 3PM, when was the last time he slept this late?

There are messages from Mary and Lestrade, he'll answer them later.

The bed's hardly had a chance to get cold when John slips back into it. It feels a little bit wicked to be in Sherlock's bed entirely naked. Just the thought alone is enough to make him squirm against the lusciously soft sheets.

He doesn't have to wait long. Sherlock comes into the room carrying a tray with, yes, tea, and toast that doesn't look to have been too badly burned.

John rolls onto his back and stretches, putting his hands behind his head. "I didn't think you were the breakfast in bed type."

"It's merely a practical measure," Sherlock says. "The sooner you fortify yourself, the sooner I can continue your training."

John, who had sat up and taken a mug from the tray, nearly chokes. " _Training_ , is that what you're calling it?"

"What else would I call it?" Sherlock says innocently. John doesn't buy it for a second. "At any rate, you fell asleep last night before I could properly reinforce your behavior." He drops his dressing gown to the floor and sprawls, inelegantly but naked, on the bed nearly upsetting the breakfast tray. "So I think we'll start with that." He trails his hand up John's thigh.

It's possible that John has never gulped down a mug of tea faster, nor been less aware of chewing and swallowing toast. He still has crumbs on his lips when he pulls Sherlock to him. Even as he's kissing John, Sherlock is trying to crawl under the covers. When he settles against John, both of them entirely naked for the first time, John breaks the kiss, gasping. "Jesus. Come here," He pulls at Sherlock until he's nearly sprawled atop John, their bodies fitting together, curve and line.

Sherlock rests his elbows to either side of John's head and practically purrs, looking impossibly smug. It's one of the sexiest things John has ever heard. He's half out of his head when he grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck to kiss him, and is shamelessly whimpering into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock lets him lead the way for a few moments, then pulls away.

When he reaches down and cups John's now-hard cock in his hand, John groans so loudly that Sherlock laughs and shushes him. "Do you want Mrs Hudson coming up to check on you?"

John bites his lips, keeping quieter, but is unable to resist writhing under Sherlock's touch.

"Better," Sherlock says. He starts kissing John's chest and shoulders, a random assault of tongue and teeth that has John fighting to keep from crying out. When he realises that Sherlock is inching slowly down his body, he has to bite the side of his hand in anticipation of what might be next.

Sherlock slides against John's belly, letting go of his cock and rubbing against it with his whole body instead. Little shocks of pleasure flash behind John's eyes and he tries to breathe.

Finally Sherlock has disappeared entirely beneath the covers, and John can feel him hovering over his cock, Sherlock's breath a hot humid tease over his skin. John arches his hips up, mutely begging. He feels the swipe of Sherlock's tongue up the length of his cock and _whines_. Sherlock's laughing at him now but he doesn't care. "Please," he says.

The pure, wet heat of Sherlock's mouth closes around the tip of his cock and John groans in sheer relief and joy. His tongue, oh god, his tongue is tracing over John's glans in a slow, intricate dance that makes John feel like his entire nervous system is on fire. He feels the sweep of Sherlock's tongue, and it's as if his entire universe has contracted down to the head of his cock and nothing else exists anymore.

And then Sherlock starts to suck.

John nearly arches entirely off the bed, his body going rigid before he collapses against the mattress. Sherlock is inside his mind, he must be, because he knows each little thing that makes John crazy--the pacing, the pressure, the way Sherlock's fingers are tracing over John's thighs, everything. Could he have learned all that from simple observation?

He tries to catch his breath enough to speak. "Sh-Sherlock, this is... going to be over fast."

Sherlock reaches up and shoves the covers off of them, revealing him kneeling between John's thighs. And Sherlock--oh Jesus Christ--Sherlock's mouth makes a perfect little heart shape around John's cock, pink lips stretched and wet as he slides up and down John's shaft. It's obscene and beautiful and John can't look away. He fights to keep his eyes open to watch, but the growing pleasure in his veins is heavy on his eyelids.

Sherlock gives a faint teasing scrape of his teeth and John is done for. His orgasm doesn't build, it doesn't peak, it _rockets_ through him like an out of control freight train. He tries to cover his mouth with his hands, but they do little to muffle his cries, so he gives up and clings to the bedsheets as he arches and bucks under Sherlock's mouth.

When it starts to fade, Sherlock is still licking and sucking at his now-softening cock. John jumps, the sensitivity of it too much, and pulls Sherlock up towards him with shaking arms. "That was--" he grins and says it anyway "--amazing."

Sherlock returns the grin. "You think so?"

Without thinking about it, John laughs and kisses him. He can taste the thin, bitter aftertaste of his own come in Sherlock's mouth. It bothers him a lot less than he'd expected. "Marry me, you crazy bastard."

Sherlock pauses. "Did you just--"

John realises what he's just said. "No! I mean. It's a bit early for that, you think?"

He would swear that he sees a flicker of disappointment across Sherlock's face as Sherlock settles against him, nuzzling his neck. "Of course," Sherlock says.

"You--wouldn't really want that, would you?" Once, John thought his life would involve marrying an interesting woman, having kids, settling down--but that was long before his time in the RAMC, and definitely long before he got shot. Getting shot changed a lot of things; ending John's desire to settle down was just one of them. With Sherlock though, would anything ever really be settled?

"I never considered it before," Sherlock says, rolling off John and lying on next to him. He turns on his side and starts tracing patterns on John's chest. "Too mundane. Dull."

John gets a mental image of Mycroft, and giggles. "Can you imagine Mycroft's face?"

"Please don't mention my brother while we're in bed ever again," Sherlock says, shuddering delicately.

"I don't imagine he'd fancy having me for a brother-in-law," John says, covering Sherlock's hand with his.

"Or you him," Sherlock says. There's an undercurrent to his voice that tugs at John. He doesn't think Sherlock's _upset_ , necessarily, but something has dimmed a bit between them.

"Nah, I'd be getting you in the bargain, that's probably a fair trade." John says, leaning over to kiss the top of Sherlock's head. "You know, I could almost see it, someday. Me and you." It might not be so bad, the two of them. It wouldn't be traditional, but it definitely wouldn't be dull. He'd always rolled his eyes when people said "Just wait, you'll change your mind about marriage when you meet the right woman." Who knew that the right woman would turn out to be the right man?

"Someday," Sherlock says, lifting his head to grin at John. "When you're too old to keep up with me."

"Definitely before then," John says. "Because that's not going to happen for a long time."

They're quiet for a while, just looking at one another. The undercurrent John sensed earlier is gone. There's an understanding there that wasn't there before. 

Sherlock says, "Moriarty's going to come after you again."

"I know," John says, remembering the trunk of a car, the heavy weight of semtex against his chest, the sharp smell of chlorine. "We'll be ready for him."

"That's the real reason to wait." Sherlock raises up on his elbow and looks John in the face. "We should keep this quiet. If it gets back to him that we're--"

"Yeah," John says quietly. There was already a target on his back, and he knew it. No sense in making it any bigger. "Mary's the only one I've told."

"After though," Sherlock says, kissing John.

John smiles and brushes a stray curl back from Sherlock's face. "After, we'll tell everybody."


	27. On One of Their Birthdays

John fidgets impatiently in the waiting room. Ever since he'd gotten the appointment for his cast removal, everything about the cast had become unbearable: it itched, it smelled bad, it was too heavy. There were times he thought he might go mad. But finally, here he is. Waiting.

He's anxious to see how much strength he's lost, how much mobility. It won't be as bad as his shoulder, but he's become protective of the left side of his body. Any loss of functioning there is too much, these days.

Finally he's called back. The appointment goes well. The cast is off, his skin isn't too irritated, but he can feel the lack of strength in his hand and wrist. He's thankful, not for the first time, that he shoots right-handed. The tremor in his left hand is worse than usual, and he expects it will be until he gets it back into shape.

As he's leaving the doctor's office, he gets a text from Sherlock.

  
From: Sherlock 2:52  
Meet me at Angelo's in twenty minutes.  
-SH  


 

  
To: Sherlock 2:52  
How did you know I was done at the surgery?  


 

  
From: Sherlock 2:52  
Mycroft told me.  
-SH  


Of course he did. 

  
To: Sherlock 2:53  
All right, I'll meet you there.  


It's a little early for dinner, and a little late for lunch, but John's stomach rumbles appreciatively at the smell of garlic and oregano when he steps into the warm air of Angelo's. 

The man himself is there and hurries over, "John! Sherlock said you'd be coming, I've got your table all ready."

John feels a sudden odd rush of affection for the man. He was one of the first people to assume that he and Sherlock were a couple. Had he seen something even back then, or was it just an honest mistake? Either way, Angelo had prompted the discussion that had first convinced John Sherlock was likely gay, and likely altered the course of their relationship forever.

"He's not here yet?" John asks.

"Not yet, not yet. It's a big occasion, eh? Let me get you a glass of wine." He bustles away before John has a chance to react. Big occasion? What is Sherlock up to now?

When Sherlock shows up, he doesn't look any different than usual, nor does he give any sign of what the 'big occasion' might be. He sits down and looks at the menu. "Your hand looks good."

John looks at it, tilting to look at the dry, pasty skin where the cast used to be. "Comparatively speaking," he chuckles. "I've lost a lot of strength though."

"You'll get it back." Sherlock gives him a small smile, a shadow of the smile John would get at home. It's awkward. Both of them are far more reserved than usual. Before, there was nothing to hide in how they interacted. If they seemed unusually close, that was just how their friendship worked. But now... it's as if every expression on John's face is a dead giveaway of how he feels. He can't remember how he behaved before. Would he have touched Sherlock's hand before? Would they have looked at each other quite so intently?

Worst of all, there's an underlying streak of paranoia, like he's being watched. Well, other than the usual sense of being watched that comes from Mycroft.

John studies the menu, although he already knows what he'll get, just like he already knows that Sherlock will pick half of it off his plate without ever ordering anything for himself. "So what's going on?" he asks. "Angelo sounded happy about some big occasion or another."

"Nothing," Sherlock says, but he looks away. 

It's the feeblest attempt at a lie John has ever seen, and from Sherlock, the consummate liar. He laughs. "That was awful, Sherlock. You're not even trying."

Angelo comes back and takes John's order (veal piccata) and Sherlock's (a glass of white wine). John says, "And Angelo, you may as well bring two plates this time."

"I'm fine," Sherlock says, waving his hand.

John just looks at Angelo, who grins and nods. He returns a moment later with a salad for each them. Sherlock pushes his plate away.

After Angelo walks away again, Sherlock clears his throat. "Happy birthday."

John pauses with his fork halfway between his mouth and the salad plate. He blinks, then awkwardly lowers the fork. "Um. It's not my birthday, Sherlock. That was seven months ago."

"I know," Sherlock says, with a tone that adds 'you blithering idiot'. "But if you'll recall, you spent the entire day away from the flat, so we never celebrated properly."

John sputters, "I spent the day away from the flat because someone was conducting an experiment that smelled like a cross between rotten eggs and moldy gym socks. I wasn't avoiding you."

"You were angry at me," Sherlock says.

"Because the flat smelled like a cross between rotten eggs and moldy gym socks!"

"At any rate, I felt I owed you a birthday dinner, at least," Sherlock says, and his foot touches John's under the table.

"Well, thanks," John says, a little bemused.

Angelo brings John's food over, and Sherlock steals the first bite, ignoring the extra plate.

John smiles as he picks up his fork. Some things, it seems, haven't changed at all.


	28. Doing Something Ridiculous

"Sherlock, no. Absolutely not." John snaps his laptop shut.

"You might enjoy it..." Sherlock says. He's sprawled on the sofa in nothing but his dressing gown, which is becoming a habit. John can't bring himself to complain. The dressing gown is gaping open, which is why John closed his laptop--he's too distracted.

John laughs, a little disbelievingly. "No, I'm pretty sure I won't."

Sherlock rolls on his side and just smiles at John as the rest of the dressing gown falls away, framing the long lines of his body in dark blue silk. " _I_ might enjoy it."

"You bastard," John says, leaning back in his chair.

Sherlock just lies there, his low laugh rumbling across the room to hit John right in the gut.

"We've barely been sleeping together a week, you can't tell me you're bored already." John says it with a light tone, but it's a legitimate worry. What happens when the novelty of a physical relationship wears off? Will Sherlock move on to other things and leave sex with John behind?

"Not at all," Sherlock says. He slowly runs his hand down the front of his body, his voice going breathy. "I just _want_ it." 'Want' is a low growl that makes John's arms and back break out in goosepimples. It's a deliberate ploy, but that doesn't mean it's not working.

"Oh bloody hell," John says, rising to his feet. "I'm not playing doctor with you, Sherlock. You do realise that's about the least sexy thing I can imagine doing, right?"

Sherlock pouts, and John feels his resistance wavering. They've been arguing about this all afternoon.

"Sherlock, it's like... I don't know... if you asked me to play a corpse or something while you deduced what happened." As soon as John says it, he regrets it, because Sherlock's eyes light up. "No. No. It's not like that at all. It's like--" he tries to think of part of the job that Sherlock absolutely hates. "It's like I wanted to watch you pretend to do paperwork for Lestrade so I could get off on it."

"I'd do it for you, if you wanted," Sherlock purrs.

"Jesus, you are such a _liar_ ," John says, laughing. "You'd sulk and complain the entire time."

"Well yes, but I'd do it." Sherlock is being utterly shameless, running his hand up and down his thighs as if to draw John's attention to his half-hard cock, emitting an occasional little sigh. John isn't sure how much longer he can hold out. 

"Do you need me to, uh, leave you alone for a few minutes?"

"No, I need you to come here and examine me... _thoroughly_ , Doctor." Sherlock sprawls onto his back, limbs loose and draped over the couch.

John pinches the bridge of his nose. He is so going to regret this. He already regrets this. He walks over to the couch. "Come here. I've never examined anybody while they were trying to pose for a centrefold and I'm not going to start now." 

He pulls Sherlock up by the hand and looks around the room. The kitchen table is out. The desk is probably his best bet. John shoves Sherlock's laptop out of the way, and pulls Sherlock with him. "There, sit down up there."

"No, you can't start _yet_ ," Sherlock says. "You don't look like a doctor." He waves a hand at John's stay-at-home jeans and jumper.

"Well I bloody am one!"

"Go change clothes."

"Sherlock," John pauses and takes a deep breath so he can speak calmly. "I am not going to put my work clothes on for this."

"Get your stethoscope."

"You are such a _child_ ," John says, but retrieves the stethoscope and a thermometer. He comes back to stand before Sherlock, who's perched on the edge of the desk with his dressing gown barely clinging to his shoulders. Sherlock is definitely aroused, which is more of a distraction than John expects--he's never tried to start an exam on an aroused man before. Well, at least not where it was so blatant.

"How are you feeling today, Mr Holmes?" John says, feeling like a first-class idiot.

"Terrible, Doctor," Sherlock says. "You have to help me." At least he's stopped writhing around like a cat in heat.

"What seems to be the trouble?" John braces himself for any number of ridiculous answers.

"I can't seem to make this go away." Sherlock indicates his erection with a mischievous grin.

And that was Ridiculous Answer #1 on John's list. "I see." He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from giggling. "And how long has this been going on?"

"A week." Sherlock looks so morose that John nearly laughs out loud.

"All right, and when you get an erection, how long does it last?"

"It depends," Sherlock says, and drops his voice into his lower register again, "on the cause."

"I see. Well, let's take a listen to make sure you're generally healthy..." John pulls the stethoscope from around his neck and sets the earpieces. He holds it to Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock jumps. "Bloody hell, John! It's cold!" John just looks at him until Sherlock says, meekly, "Sorry, Doctor."

John spends a moment listening to Sherlock's heartbeat. He's probably heard thousands of different heartbeats through the years: men, women, and children; soldiers who were having a routine medical exam, soldiers who were in the first stages of trauma, soldiers who were dying in front of him; once, memorably, an Afghani woman who was about to give birth. The sound varies, the pace varies, but it's always the same sound.

It had never occurred to him to think of the sound of a heartbeat as beautiful before.

The silliness of the situation is lost to John as he listens. _Safe_ , is what he hears. _Here_ , and _happy_. 

"...John?" 

"Yeah, sorry," John says, snapping out of it. Sherlock is looking at him curiously. John smiles and leans in and kisses him gently. "Come here. I may have just the thing for you."

"But you're not playing--"

John silences Sherlock with another kiss and a grin. "No. I'm not playing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know about ["Undercurrents" by entanglednow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/149206), which is brilliant, and which has John pretending to be a corpse at a crime scene. :)


	29. Doing Something Sweet

“It’s too extravagant,” John fusses. 

“All the better,” Sherlock says. 

“I still think it’s a bad idea.” They’re standing in the kitchen of 221B. John looks at the envelope in his hand and shakes his head. “It’s an awfully posh setting for a weekend mini-break.” The envelope is glossy and covered in photographs of a country estate-turned-bed and breakfast. It promises luxurious beds, decadent sheets, fireplaces, and elegant breakfasts all in a quintessential English countryside setting.

It looks horrid, if John is perfectly honest. He hadn’t blamed Sherlock for grimacing when he received it as a thank you gift for recovering a missing necklace belonging to a back-bencher’s wife. As said necklace was discovered around the neck of the man’s mistress, he was rather grateful to have the whole situation resolved quietly.

Sherlock comes around behind him and slips his arms around John’s waist. He leans in and murmurs into John’s ear, low and dirty. “Just think about how much fun we’ll have this weekend though.”

John sighs. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

“This will never work out if you don’t at least pretend that you think it’s a good idea, John.”

“All right,” says John. “I’ll be right behind you.”

They head down the seventeen steps to the foyer, then Sherlock knocks on Mrs Hudson’s door. When she answers, he says, “Mrs. Hudson, you are about to have a fantastic weekend.”

She lets them in, with a sceptical look on her face. “Sherlock, what are you up to now?”

John smiles and answers before Sherlock can. “You’ve been so patient with all of the problems lately, we wanted to do something nice for you.” He holds out the envelope.

Mrs Hudson takes it and looks it over. “Oh boys, I can’t let you do that. This is too much.”

“It’s already done,” Sherlock says. “I know you have no plans for this weekend, so tomorrow, a car will come and whisk you away for a lovely time in Devon. Mrs Turner too, if you’d fancy a friend to go with.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says with that familiar chiding note in her voice. 

“That’s settled then,” Sherlock says, leaning down and kissing her on the cheek. “Tomorrow at 2PM.”

“We’ll come down to help you with your bags,” John says, and she squeezes his hand.

Mrs Hudson’s eyes are bright, and she’s smiling. “You boys. Just when I think I should wash my hands of the both of you, you do something like this. Thank you.”

“Not at all,” says Sherlock. “Tomorrow you are getting out of this house and away from London for a weekend. No one deserves it more.”

They escape after a refusal of tea, and head back upstairs, John to his computer and Sherlock to his kitchen table experiments. John’s still trying to put together a blog entry about the night of the dinner--well, as much as Mycroft has cleared him to talk about, which is not much--but failing miserably. Finally he laughs. “Is this what life with you is going to be like now?”

Sherlock looks up, a pair of protective goggles on. “Like what?”

“You’re sending our landlady away for the weekend so that--well, so that--” His cheeks are heating up.

“So that we can have outrageously loud sex without possibly bothering her, yes,” Sherlock says, turning back to his experiment. “Problem?”

“No,” John says, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Not a problem at all.”


	30. Doing Something Hot

Mrs Hudson kisses them each on the cheek before climbing into the car. “You boys don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone. I expect to see the building still standing when I come back, Sherlock.”

“I’ll keep him out of trouble, Mrs Hudson,” John says, grinning.

Mrs Hudson just smiles as she slides into the car. “Yes, you always do.” She waves as John closes the door for her and the car drives off.

Sherlock is back inside 221 before the car is fully away from the kerb. “John, hurry.”

The urgency in Sherlock’s voice makes him laugh, but also causes a stirring in his jeans. “The flat’s not going anywhere,” John says, then follows him inside.

The second the door is closed, John is shoved up against it. Sherlock locks the door with one hand and shoves the other up under John’s jumper and shirt as he leans down to bite John’s neck. “John,” he murmurs, “I’m going to suck your cock right here.”

John makes a noise that isn’t quite a word, then clears his throat and tries again. “Okay.”

Sherlock laughs, his breath humid against John’s neck. “‘Okay’?” He traces a line down from John’s ear with his tongue. “I tell you that I plan to go on my knees, right here in this foyer, strip your trousers off and suck you until you come down my throat, and the best you can do is ‘Okay’?”

“Was I supposed to argue?” John says. Christ, his knees are going weak just from the words. He leans more heavily against the door and draws Sherlock in closer by hooking one foot around the back of Sherlock’s leg. John grabs Sherlock’s curls at the back of his skull, turning Sherlock’s head until he can reach his ear and bite at the lobe. He growls into Sherlock’s ear, gratified at Sherlock’s startled sound. John takes a slow breath then murmurs, “Make. Me. Scream.”

The alacrity with which Sherlock goes to his knees would be comical if John weren’t so outrageously, achingly hard already. They battle for a moment, each of them trying to unfasten John’s jeans until John pushes Sherlock’s hands out of the way and finishes the job, shoving jeans and pants down to his knees.

And then, oh god then, Sherlock doesn’t waste any time teasing, but draws John so far into his mouth that John feels the head of his cock bumping against the back of Sherlock’s throat. His legs nearly give out beneath him. Sherlock reaches around John’s thighs to prop him up while Sherlock starts curling his tongue up the underside of John’s cock.

John thuds his head against the door with a low groan that turns into a startled yelp. One of Sherlock’s hands is creeping up the back of John’s thigh, and one fingertip is slowly tracing over the crack of his arse. It isn’t that John has never been touched there before--he’s had girlfriends who teased him about his arse, and two that enjoyed a little more than that.

But with Sherlock, it’s different. With Sherlock there’s more... potential intent. John can’t worry about it for long though, not with the decadent slide of Sherlock’s lips over his cock. He knows what he’ll see if he looks down, and he knows that right now, the sight of Sherlock, wet-lipped and greedy, will be the end of his control. John closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the door, spreading his fingers against the cool woodgrain behind him.

The pace Sherlock is setting is slow and steady--a little too slow, keeping John just on the edge of an orgasm. He suspects that’s on purpose. Meanwhile, Sherlock’s finger is slipping just between John’s buttocks. It feels good, but he’s worried that Sherlock might take a message from it that John isn’t ready to send. He opens his mouth to protest as Sherlock’s finger just brushes against his anus. John gasps at the spark of pleasure it causes, arching his hips against Sherlock’s mouth.

He tells himself he’ll say something any minute now, but Sherlock’s mouth is tight and wet and hot and moving faster now, and just the tip of Sherlock’s finger is tracing over the sensitive nerves around his arsehole--and John can’t find the breath to speak or the desire to stop anything. For one mad moment, John thinks that if it feels as good as Sherlock’s mouth and hands do, he’d be willing to bend over right here and now and let Sherlock fuck him.

The thought shocks a groan out of him. John rests a hand on the back of Sherlock’s head and fights the urge to thrust wildly. Sherlock has two fingers rubbing fast and firm against John’s arse, showing no inclination to push them inside, content to just make John’s knees turn to rubber, caught between Sherlock’s mouth and his fingers.

John opens his eyes, and looks down. Sherlock is watching him with his usual intense gaze; John feels as if it’s pinning him against the door. And Sherlock’s mouth, god, it’s as lovely as he anticipated, those amazing lips swollen and wet and stretched. John feels the spike of heat deep in his guts and knows it won’t be long.

They watch one another, Sherlock licking and sucking along the length of John’s cock, and John clinging to the door for support, his breathing growing more and more erratic. He can feel it building inside like the pressure inside a kettle, slow, so slow, until he wants to scream in agonised frustration.

When he finally comes, it’s like a slow-motion tumble off a cliff that speeds up the longer he falls. He barely recognises the sound of his own voice, loud and sharp and overwhelmed, wordlessly crying out over and over as he falls over the edge. And falls. And falls.

When reality reasserts itself, Sherlock is propping him up against the door raining kisses over his face and neck. “Come upstairs,” Sherlock murmurs, and takes him by the hand. It’s Sherlock who helps him the rest of the way out of his jeans and pants, and who steadies him as they climb the stairs side by side.

They almost never make it as far away as John’s bed upstairs, and this is no exception. They wind up sprawling and half-naked in Sherlock’s bed. John’s shirt and jumper are still on, but Sherlock’s somehow down to nothing but his pants and one sock.

John laughs. “You look ridiculous. Take your sock off.” He feels like he’s floating just above the bed on a cloud of post-orgasmic endorphins.

“You’re still wearing two shirts,” Sherlock complains, reaching down to push off his sock.

“Give me a minute,” John says. “I can’t move that much yet.” He catches Sherlock by the wrist and pulls. “Come here.”

Sherlock resists. “No, not until you’re naked.” 

“You still have pants on.”

Sherlock rolls off the bed in a quick motion and shucks his pants. “Better?”

“Much,” John says, looking him over. It’s difficult now to remember when he felt uncomfortable about Sherlock’s body, although it’s only been a few weeks. Now the sight of Sherlock’s cock doesn’t make him want to run, it makes his mouth water.

And in fact, that gives John an idea. 

He musters a burst of energy and rises up onto his knees in Sherlock’s bed, and pulls his shirt and jumper off together, tossing them out of sight onto the floor. “Come here,” John repeats. He reaches for Sherlock, who kneels on the bed in front of him. John pulls him over for a kiss, then lowers Sherlock to the bed, settling against him. They lick and nip and suck at each other’s mouths lazily for several minutes.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs between kisses, “what would you say if I told you I wanted to crawl down between your legs and take you in my mouth?” His pulse jumps just saying it; it’s not an offer he’s made before. Sucking another man’s cock, well, that’s one of those lines. And right now John can’t cross it fast enough.

“I’d say,” and here Sherlock’s voice drops to a low purr, “‘Oh god, yes.’”

John grins and kisses Sherlock hard before starting a slow slide down his body. He stops to lick at Sherlock’s nipples, revelling in the shiver it causes, the goosebumps it raises on Sherlock’s arms. Settling between Sherlock’s legs isn’t at all unlike doing the same with a woman, only John’s anticipation is mingled with nervousness. He thinks he’s sure to be crap at it the first time. 

He licks his lips and hears Sherlock’s chuckle. John glances up at him, meeting his eyes. Then he curls his fingers around the base of Sherlock’s cock, so beautifully hard and ready, and carefully drags just the tip of his tongue up the underside.

The taste is nothing at all like he expects: mostly salty skin with a slight bitter undercurrent of musk. The texture fascinates him. John wants to take his time, to map out every ridge, every vein, to feel the change in skin texture between the shaft and the glans and the foreskin. He spends several long minutes doing just that, licking Sherlock from top to bottom and back again, until the texture and taste are background information to him, letting him focus on Sherlock’s reactions more than his own.

Sherlock is panting and whining now, and the sound gives John the start of another erection. He rises up a little on his knees for better positioning, and leans over Sherlock’s straining cock. John kisses just the tip, then slowly starts to slide down, letting Sherlock breach his mouth.

It takes him a moment to figure out how to keep his teeth away while still tightening his lips; it gives him a new appreciation for nearly every woman who’s done this for him. He’s only maybe an inch past the head of Sherlock’s cock when he has to pause. It’s so odd, to have something so unyielding filling his mouth. He can feel his gag reflex trying to trigger and he’s hardly taken it deep at all.

He knows from experience though, it really doesn’t matter. John wraps his hand around the lower part of Sherlock’s cock, and focuses the attentions of his mouth on the upper third. With a bit of trial and error, he manages to find a satisfying pace--both for himself and for Sherlock, if Sherlock’s gasps and cries are any indication.

“John,” Sherlock cries, touching just the top of John’s head. “Yes, oh just like that.”

Maybe this isn’t so difficult after all, then. John bobs his head at the same pace as his hand, tasting the thin bitter pre-come leaking from Sherlock’s cock. He’s settling in and ready to keep going until he makes Sherlock come when his jaw suddenly seizes in a fierce, biting cramp.

He tries to keep going, but he can’t. John pulls off and can’t move his mouth to even curse, but rubs violently at the offending muscle in his jaw.

Sherlock is giggling-- _giggling_ , John’s not sure he’s ever heard him make that noise before--and John’s pride is wounded. “Come here,” he says, pulling John back up and kissing at the sore spot on his jaw. “I know just the thing to make us both feel better...”

In the end, they both make so much noise John worries that someone is going to call the police.

***

When John wakes the next morning, Sherlock is already up again. He stretches, feeling sweaty and sticky and desperate for a shower. Shower first then, followed by tea.

When he steps out of the shower, he hears the sound of a text alert on Sherlock's phone. When Sherlock doesn't yell for him, he finishes towelling and brushes his teeth. He wonders for a moment at the likelihood of tempting Sherlock back to bed. He grins and tosses his towel around his neck and wanders out into the kitchen, rubbing at the back of his neck with the towel.

Sherlock's phone goes off as he enters. "It's your phone," he says.

"Mm. Keeps doing that." Sherlock doesn't look up from his microscope. 

Hanging there by the neck next to him is a life-sized mannequin, swaying in the breeze. John arches an eyebrow as he walks past, picking up the newspaper and settling into his chair. "So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?"

Sherlock looks up as if seeing the mannequin for the first time. "Oh. Henry Fishgard never committed suicide." He slams a book shut on the table sending a puff of dust into the air. "Bow Street Runners, missed everything."

When John had asked Sherlock to consider cases that were a little less visible, this wasn't quite what he had in mind. He says drily, "Pressing case, is it?"

"They're all pressing until they're solved," Sherlock says.

Sherlock’s phone goes off again, and John goes back to his paper with a smile. While the chances of him luring Sherlock back to bed look slim, it's still shaping up to be a good day.


End file.
